


Premium Pandemonium

by VelkynKarma



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, But reading the books is NOT required to understand this fic, Cryptids, Found Family, Gen, Gore, Gruesome Imagery, Implied/Referenced Torture, InCryptid AU, Injury, Kidnapping, Killing, Language, Magic, Mentions of Suicide, Monsters, Murder, Other characters are briefly mentioned - Freeform, References to Alcohol, References to Drugs, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Torture, Urban Fantasy, canon minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 345,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: Takashi Shirogane is raised in a noble lineage of monster hunters, tasked with protecting humanity from things that would prey on them. He’s always believed in upholding justice, and protecting the innocent. But after a chance encounter with one of the creatures he hunts, he realizes many of those so-called ‘monsters’ are innocent too, and the cause he serves isn’t as noble as he’d been led to believe.So he runs. And he hides. And slowly but surely, he comes to learn more about the cryptid world, and finds another family of his own making. He protects those who need it, and he earns his own redemption.And all the while, something dark lurks in the city he calls home, whispered of in shadows, threatening the people he’s sworn to protect. Something called Galra.
Comments: 518
Kudos: 222





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Happy Halloween!** At long last, after more than a year of working on this story, I finally get to share it with you all!
> 
> This is an AU based on the world of the InCryptid series by Seanan McGuire. However, you **DO NOT** need to have read any of the books to understand this fic! If you like urban fantasy or cryptids, you should still enjoy :)
> 
> Special thanks to **Bosstoaster** who helped out with editing and peer review.

“There are cryptids everywhere in the world, which only makes sense, when you consider ‘cryptid’ means ‘science doesn’t know about it yet.’”    
—Antimony Price,  _ That Ain’t Witchcraft _

**_Deep in a forest, hunting things that hunt people_ **

Takashi is eighteen years old when everything he’s ever known about the world changes.

It's not the existence of monsters. Takashi has known about those since he could crawl. The Shirogane clan can trace its lineage back for generations to ancient Japan, where his ancestors had defended humanity from the encroaching, hungry yōkai. The creatures were real, and not something out of myths and legends. They were creatures that could, and would, trick and connive, kill and consume. Creatures that would eradicate humanity if given a chance. 

Takashi had been raised on bedtime stories of the heroics of his family and the terrifying creatures they’d faced. He’d been trained in countless techniques passed down from warrior to warrior. He’d studied for hours on end, to learn the weaknesses of each of those  _ things,  _ that in turn thought humans were weak. He had been eager to earn the right to fight alongside the rest of his family and their allies in the Covenant of St. George. To truly earn the name  _ Shirogane,  _ and the duty and honor to safeguard ordinary humans from things that simply weren’t. 

No, it's not the existence of monsters that stuns him. It's the fact that maybe, this entire time, not all of them have been evil.

It happens at night, during one of his first solo missions. At eighteen, Takashi has been combat capable for years, and permitted on missions for the past two. But this is one of the first times he’s ever been allowed to split away from a seasoned veteran to continue a hunt on his own, and he’s eager to prove himself. 

He’s one of the brightest, most skillful trainees the Covenant of St. George has to offer. ( _ No surprise there,  _ many of the higher-ups often say,  _ he’s a Shirogane, they’re born and bred for this).  _ But even so, he still has to earn his keep. A name and a family reputation mean nothing for an unproven cadet, and cockiness can still get him killed, no matter how good his family is supposed to be at this.

So he puts everything into his hunt. But even so, he’s surprised he finds the troll first. Especially when someone is screaming for help, and the call carries so far, even through the dense trees.

It’s not an easy opponent. Protocol says he should wait for backup, at least one or two other agents of the Covenant, before engaging. But the troll is rabid and ruthless, and there’s a human curled up in the loam with their hands over their head, quaking in fear. Takashi can’t wait. 

This is what he was  _ meant  _ for.

The troll is a difficult opponent. It’s enormous, strong, far faster than it looks, and it’s armed with a club that’s actually half a tree, which gives it a frightening amount of range. 

Takashi is armed as well, but the sidearms won’t do much against a troll of that size, and neither will the throwing knives. Getting close enough to use his sword nearly kills him. He takes a nasty slash to the face that should have cut out his eyes and just barely misses. The troll’s club connects with his right arm savagely enough to break it in two places. 

It’s a dangerous opponent, but Takashi is more agile, and clever, and he’s trained for this. He knows how to fight an opponent so much larger than he is, and how to turn its size to his advantage. It’s a hard battle, but it ends with him hamstringing the troll, and when it collapses, severing its head from its body. 

Takashi gasps, and he  _ hurts,  _ but even so, there’s a fierce, wild pride in his chest. He’d defeated a creature singlehandedly that should have taken three agents, while protecting a civilian, with no casualties. He has  _ earned  _ the right to his surname. They won’t be able to keep him as a junior cadet much longer. They’ll have to offer him his trial to become a full member of the Covenant after this.

But when he turns to help the civilian he’d rescued, he freezes. The young man that had been curled up in the dirt and begging for help is sitting up now, staring, eyes wide. 

He isn’t human.

There’s no doubting it, now that Takashi can get a closer look at him. He’s human- _ like,  _ but his skin has a grayish pallor that’s not natural, and his entire body—especially his arms and legs—are too long to be normal. There are too many joints in his fingers. 

_ Bogeyman,  _ Takashi identifies, after a shocked moment. 

They’re dangerous.  _ All  _ monsters are dangerous. But these ones are attributed to spreading plagues in human populations and preying on human fears for sport. 

He’s a monster. He has to die. 

Even now Takashi is in danger, with his right arm uselessly dangling at his side, and no backup. A bogeyman is much smarter than a troll, and will know how to use Takashi’s vulnerabilities to its advantage. Takashi has to fight back  _ now.  _

With years of instinct and training guiding him, he shifts his sword in his left hand, preparing to strike or defend, and takes his first step forward. 

But the moment he moves, the bogeyman crawls backwards several feet, long, spider-like limbs and hands scrambling awkwardly in the dirt. He watches Takashi, wide-eyed, and rasps, “Please.  _ Please don’t.  _ I just want to go home to my family.”

With a pang of shock, Takashi realizes this monster is scared of him.

_ It’s a trick,  _ his training warns him, fierce and suspicious. Bogeymen were known to be excellent mimics. They could throw their voices with alarming skill, and were excellent manipulators of emotions...usually fear. This one was probably preying on his exhaustion and pain, trying to turn the situation to its advantage. 

But even as long years of training caution him to be wary, Takashi’s instincts say otherwise. There’s no way to fake the expression in those wide eyes, or in the shake of his limbs. This monster is terrified. Of _him._

Maybe that’s supposed to be a good thing. The monsters that prey on humanity  _ should  _ fear the Covenant of St George. They  _ should  _ fear the name  _ Shirogane.  _ They should know humanity has protectors, ones who aren’t so easy to hunt or kill.

Maybe it’s supposed to be a good thing. But there’s a twist of uncertainty in his stomach that nauseates Takashi, for some reason. 

“Please,” the bogeyman repeats, still scrabbling backwards. “I just...I don’t want trouble. I just want to go home.”

_ He’s injured, _ Takashi realizes suddenly. One of his unnaturally long legs is bleeding and swollen. He’d probably been injured by the troll. He can’t escape quickly, and he winces every time he puts his weight on the injury. He’d be easy to kill.

_ He could be the same age as me,  _ is his next thought. He’s not sure, exactly. He doesn’t know how one tells, with a bogeyman. But if his limbs were the right length, and his skin wasn’t so gray, if he didn’t have too many joints in his fingers, his face looks like one that could belong to another Covenant trainee. Messy, brownish hair, skewed glasses crookedly hanging over his nose, goofy T-shirt with a science logo on it. 

And he’s terrified. Of  _ Takashi.  _

Takashi’s hand tightens on the sword hilt for a moment, so hard his knuckles turn white. 

He knows his duty. He knows what he’s _supposed_ to do. The oath he’d sworn demands that he cut down this...this monster here and now. Eighteen years of training concur. Who knows what this...thing could do, if it escaped. 

He could make it painless. As merciful as possible. But better to end it now. 

Except, as he stares down at the frightened maybe-a-teenager and sees his own reflection in the bogeyman’s eyes—covered in blood, sword in hand, staring down like an executioner—he can’t help but wonder who the monster in this situation  _ really  _ is. 

He turns his back on the bogeyman, and without a word, he walks away.

_ Stupid!  _ His training screeches. Even his instincts balk at the idea of leaving his back exposed to a creature he’d been taught would gleefully strangle him in his sleep. 

He does it anyway.

He makes it to the other side of the clearing, on the other side of the dead troll, and glances back one last time. The bogeyman has managed to haul himself to his feet, using a tree as support. But he hasn’t tried to attack, or chase, or come any closer. He just stares after Takashi, wide-eyed, shocked.

“Why?” he asks, after a moment. He’s twenty feet away, on the other side of the clearing, but Takashi hears him as though he’s standing next to the creature. It takes every ounce of restraint he has to keep from flinching. “Aren’t...you’re one of  _ them,  _ aren’t you?”

Not even an hour ago, Takashi might have taken vicious pleasure in the bogeyman speaking of the Covenant like  _ they  _ were the frightening creatures in the night. Now it makes his stomach flop uncomfortably again. 

He doesn’t answer that question. Instead he says, “There’s more of them here. They’ll come soon. If you want to see your family again, you’d better get gone.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath right next to his ear, and twenty feet away. Takashi looks away again, and heads further into the woods alongside the clearing. When he glances back again, the bogeyman is gone. 

His training screams that this is  _ bad.  _ A bogeyman out of visual range is potentially deadly. But Takashi has a feeling he won’t be hassled by this particular bogeyman again. 

Physically, anyway. 

Mentally, whether or not the bogeyman had even realized it, he’d left behind a vicious wound that was already starting to fester. Takashi goes to make contact with the rest of the Covenant agents on tonight’s mission, to report his kill to them and—maybe, just maybe—to stall them a bit, just enough for the creature he’d protected to get away. But as he does, he turns the question over and over again in his mind.

Who had been the real monster here tonight?

* * *

He’s benched for nearly two months, while his broken arm heals.

“I’m impressed you got out of a fight with a troll with  _ just  _ a broken arm,” the Covenant physician says. “Shirogane indeed.” 

Strictly speaking, it isn’t just the broken arm. He’d gotten bruised up pretty badly in the fight, and his ribs are a little sore. The gash across his face is deep enough to leave a scar, and probably will; he’s lucky he didn’t lose an eye, or his life. It’s uncomfortable and pulls tightly at his face, sometimes, and it’s sore and sensitive while healing. Breathing is sometimes difficult. But he can live with it.

Most of the other Covenant agents treat it like a badge of honor. “A troll, defeated single-handedly,” they exclaim, impressed and awed. “At only just barely eighteen! He’s not even a full member yet. Blood  _ shows.”  _

He is reprimanded for fighting the creature solo, of course. He wasn’t supposed to fight one without backup; there was a very real possibility that he could just as easily have been killed. He doesn’t dare tell them about the bogeyman, either, so he can’t claim that he was rescuing a civilian. There hadn’t been one, when they’d gone to examine and burn the body of the troll. 

But the punishment is a light slap on the wrist compared to what might have happened. They’re too impressed. Even his father and mother, both seasoned veterans in their own right, admit as much after finishing with their lecture. They were concerned about him being too reckless, but they were proud of him for what he’d done.

Everyone’s proud of him. They’re already lauding him as a new champion for the Covenant. Two days ago he’d have been thrilled by it.

Their pride makes him sick to his stomach, now.

So it’s not like Takashi minds being taken off active duty for the duration of his healing. That encounter with the bogeyman had been...unsettling. He’s not sure he wants to go out killing more monsters just yet. Not until he’s had a chance to think. 

His right arm is bound in a cast and he’s stuck around the main complex in the English countryside, reduced to light exercise to keep from getting out of shape, but not permitted to push himself too hard. Normally, that wouldn’t bother him. He can still stay active, and the English complex is pretty, funded by old European blood on old European plots of land, with plenty of open space to roam and train. He’s been to a fair few of the complexes around Europe, and his family hails from Japan, but he’d probably consider this particular location the closest to ‘home’ that he’s ever known. 

But now he can’t help but wonder just how much these walls are drenched in blood, and how many of the killings that this place stood for were just. 

All his life, he’s been taught to defend the innocent. The weak. The helpless. He’s been raised on horror stories of monsters slaughtering defenseless humans, humans that hadn’t even known they existed, and hadn’t known how to protect themselves. He’s always believed in the cause. He’s always known what he was doing was right.

But time and time again he thinks back, to that terrified face on the bogeyman, and his pleading to just be allowed to go home. He’d acted so...human, even if he wasn’t. So vulnerable. And the longer he looks at it, he can only identify that monster….no, that  _ person... _ as someone who was just as innocent, and just as unable to protect himself.

Takashi doesn’t like the thought that maybe  _ he’s  _ the predator. 

He tries to seek justification. For his own actions. For the people he’s known his whole life, who he’s talked with, laughed with, trained with. The people who have saved his life against dangerous creatures. They can’t be monsters, can they? 

Not all the stories can be wrong. He’s been attacked by monsters on his training missions. Lindworms and ahools, or the werewolf infestation that had spawned down south. The troll he’d killed had been wild and uncontrollable. There  _ are  _ things out there deadly to humans, and humans need to be protected from them.

The stories aren’t all wrong. 

But they’re not all right, either.

At the very least, everything he’s learned about bogeymen could be wrong. The one he’d met hadn’t tried to manipulate him, or strike when he was wounded, or take advantage of his vulnerabilities. He’d just wanted to go home. 

Two days before his cast comes off, Takashi comes to a realization. Despite eighteen years of training, he simply doesn’t know enough. Not about monsters. Not about anything. 

And if he doesn’t know enough, and the knowledge he’s been taught is  _ wrong,  _ and they’re indiscriminately killing innocent  _ victims  _ who might not be as dangerous as the stories would imply…

Then he’ll have innocent blood on his hands. He probably already  _ does,  _ and the thought makes him so sick to his stomach that he can barely eat. 

His coworkers, the Covenant, they have innocent blood on their hands too. His  _ family,  _ its vaunted duty and honor for generations upon generations, their hundreds of stories about deadly foes vanquished and precious lives saved... _ all  _ of it may have come at the cost of innocent lives murdered. 

The name Shirogane might very well be so stained in blood it will never be clean again.

Takashi knows enough to know he doesn’t know much of anything.

But he does know that doesn’t sound like justice to him.

* * *

Just a few months after he turns eighteen, Takashi runs.

It’s not his first choice. When the cast comes off, he begs time off to retrain, get his broken limb in working order again. It’s not a total lie—it does twinge uncomfortably sometimes, deep in his bones, if he pushes himself too hard. 

But mostly he doesn’t want to go back on duty. Not if it means he has to kill again. Not without knowing if the blood on his hands is justified. Not until he knows if what he’s doing is  _ right.  _

He tries to research it. To read between the lines of the accounts in the library. But there’s nothing to find. Stories about dozens of kinds of monsters killed are there in droves, but it’s always justice, always deserved. They were always evil, cruel, conniving. The Covenant is always right.

Except Takashi knows they’ve been wrong at least once. Which means they might have been wrong before, and they could be wrong again. 

Running isn’t his first choice, but he plans for an exit anyway, just like he was taught. And a few months after the cast comes off, when he can’t avoid going on missions any longer, when he  _ will  _ be on a mission to eradicate a nest of ghouls discovered in London, he enacts that plan. 

It’s almost disgustingly easy to disappear. He drains one of the family’s financial accounts, converting some to cash and shifting the rest to safe, unknown personal accounts for later. Steals an ungodly number of jewels and silver from the Covenant complex, things easy to smuggle but worth a great deal to the right sellers. He’s trained in concealment, disguise and stealth his whole life, in order to discreetly enter countries, deal with whatever problem was discovered, and leave. A fake identity and passport are easy to create. He knows how to cover his tracks, create false leads, and hide his own trail.

He disappears in the middle of the night from the Covenant complex, and he never looks back.

He flees to America. The Covenant has footholds in most other countries, especially in Europe and Asia. But they’ve had a harder time breaking into North America, despite their many attempts. The Covenant had always been disgusted at the odd acceptance some parts of the country had for monsters, or at how easily it was for them to hide in the enormous populations or wide open landscapes. They could never maintain much of a foothold there, and only had a few spies at best.

Takashi wants nothing at all to do with them, so America it is. It won’t take them long to realize he’s gone absent without leave, and when they do, he needs to be so firmly hidden they’ll never find him again.

* * *

Getting set up in America is shockingly easy, with the amount of money he has at his disposal.

As soon as he touches down on American soil he dumps his first false identity, just in case, and picks up a second. He takes another flight, at random, to another huge city on the east coast called Garrison. He’s only vaguely familiar with it. It’s not one of the well known cities like New York, which is one of the first places the Covenant will look for him, but it’s still large enough he can get lost in the population. 

Once in Garrison City, he dumps the second false identity—he’s being paranoid, but he’d rather be paranoid than dead—and creates the third. This one, he’ll use for longer than a few minutes. 

In his head, he’s still Takashi Shirogane, loathe as he is to be attached to that surname now. But to everyone else, he’s Ryou Tanaka, freshly moved to the USA for some travel experiences before going to university. 

He gets a two-bedroom apartment, fully furnished, in a reasonably defensible area. He’s still being paranoid, but he  _ knows  _ what the Covenant are capable of. He doesn’t know what they’d do to traitors, because there haven’t been any in centuries. But he knows it won’t be good, whatever it is. He’ll still have to be careful of innocent civilians living in the building, but he has at least six ways to get out of the apartment and enough decent cover that he can defend himself in the event of an attack.

Once he has a base of operations, he arms himself to the teeth. He hadn’t been able to smuggle most of his weapons on the plane, but it’s almost depressingly easy to rearm himself with any number of firearms and throwing knives, two well-honed swords that weren’t merely for display, a set of brass knuckles, two collapsible police batons, a garrote, a crossbow and bolts, and a machete in short order. 

It’s not nearly his old arsenal back with the Covenant. But then again, he reminds himself, that arsenal had largely been for hunting monst— _ cryptids.  _ He’s not doing that. Ever again. This is only to protect himself, and only if he absolutely  _ has  _ to. 

Even so, he’d been taught never to go completely unarmed. And he might not want a fight, anymore, but he’s not naive enough to believe a fight won’t still come to  _ him.  _ Not with his family’s reputation, and not as a fugitive of the Covenant. As soon as he has some access to his weapons again, he makes it a habit to always have at least one concealed firearm, a dozen throwing knives, and one of the batons on his person. 

Just in case. You never know when they’ll be needed.

He certainly hopes they won’t.


	2. Angelos dhalion: Part One

“You misunderstand. This is my attempt to begin paying the Covenant’s debt to you.”  
—Dominic De Luca, _Discount Armageddon_

**_The roof of an undisclosed apartment building in Garrison City_ **

Takashi is right to be wary. Within two weeks of renting his apartment under his new name, somebody who knows who he _really_ is finds him. 

It’s not the somebody he expects.

It happens at night, on the roof of his apartment complex. Takashi’s taken to spending nights up there when the sky is clear. It’s relatively safe—if he has to run, there’s fire escapes or roofs he can leap to on adjacent buildings. He’d scouted every inch of the place out within hours of moving into the apartment.

More importantly, it feels like the air is a little cleaner higher up, and he can breathe better. He can’t see the stars as well as he could in the old English countryside, in the middle of Garrison City. But he can find one or two constellations, and he can sometimes get a nice look at the moon. 

It’s only been two weeks since he ran, but already he finds himself coming up here often. He sits on the side of the building, stares up at the sky, and wonders what it would be like to disappear from this planet entirely. 

If there were cryptids when nobody believed in them, maybe there were aliens too. Maybe he could run that way. Or learn to fly. Be an astronaut, or maybe just fly a regular plane. He’d always wanted to, when he was younger. But his parents had always stressed the importance of the Shirogane legacy, and he’d eventually given up that pipe dream.

He really hates that legacy now. 

Sadly, the dream isn’t really possible either at this point. He’d be too recognizable as an astronaut, and too easily tracked as a pilot. It’s still nice to think about sometimes, though.

It happens while he’s watching a particularly beautiful full moon, two weeks into his escape, and wondering again about those old dreams. There’s a scuff on the gravel behind him, and a soft flapping noise. 

His instincts kick in immediately, and Takashi moves. He rolls from the edge of the building, back onto the solid ground of the roof. Something _wooshes_ by over his head, fast enough he can feel the wind of it. 

He hits the roof. By the time he’s come out of the safety roll, he’s crouched defensively, and there’s a throwing knife in each hand. Even as he spins to face his attacker, he’s calculating his options for running, or fighting. What’s the fastest way to flee? How can he avoid getting civilians involved?

His thoughts grind to a stunned halt when he sees his assailant. 

It’s hard to guess her exact age—maybe somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five. She’s slim and tall, with dark skin and a shock of long white hair, clutching a long staff in her hands. She wears mostly dark clothing, as though doing her best to blend into the darkness. The effect is sort of negated by eagle-talon feet and a large pair of white wings, still spread wide for balance from her staff attack.

Takashi’s eyes widen, and it’s all he can do to keep his jaw from dropping. A caladrius! 

But...but they were supposed to be extinct, according to all the data the Covenant of St. George had on them. Their feathers had magical healing properties, so they had been hunted down years ago. Supposedly, it was to gain the advantage of healing while keeping that power out of monsters’ hands. 

Now, Takashi suspects the story is very different.

 _“Covenant,”_ the caladrius snarls, spinning the staff into a ready position. Her combat forms are perfect, although it’s bizarrely fascinating to watch a large set of wings incorporated into the stances. “What do you want with _my_ city?”

“Nothing,” Takashi says, truthfully. Very, very carefully, he holds up both hands, adjusting the knives in them so they aren’t in a ready to throw position. 

She watches warily, eyes narrowed, staff at the ready. “I don’t believe you,” she snaps, after a moment. “Not only are you Covenant, you are _Shirogane._ You have plans for this city. For the community. _What are they?”_

There’s a sharp pang in his chest at that. She knows his name. His _real_ one. The family he belongs to, and what they’re known for. That’s alarming, but it’s painful too, in his soul more than anywhere else.

But when he answers, his voice is steady. “No plans,” Takashi insists. “I just want to live. I don’t want trouble. That’s all.”

He’s aware, in an ironic twist, that it’s similar to what the bogeyman had said to him all those months ago. _Unlike_ the bogeyman, he isn’t cornered just yet. Takashi has no interest in starting a fight with this cryptid, but if she pushes the fight, he can and will defend himself. 

“You draw weapons against me,” she says, eyeing the knives in his hands.

“You did attack me without warning,” Takashi points out, fairly enough. “I was only protecting myself.”

She considers this. “You have not struck yet.”

“I don’t know if you deserve it yet.”

“You are Covenant. You are Shirogane. You need no reason other than that I am different from you.” 

But Takashi shakes his head. “That’s not the right way. Being different isn’t enough justification for murder.” 

She cocks her head at him a moment, considering. For the first time, Takashi notices her hair isn’t actually hair at all, but more like a long, feathery white down. Even in the dark, her narrowed eyes look more pink or purple as she stares him down. He feels like an insect in a jar, but he doesn’t move, and lets her stare. 

“I have been observing you,” she says, after a moment. “For almost two weeks, now.”

That sends a chill down Takashi’s spine. Not only does she know his heritage, and where he lives, she knows how long he’s been here. It means she has connections. Resources. Enough to identify him, even after he’d done everything in his power to get lost. Maybe he’s not as safe as he’d thought.

“For two weeks,” she continues, “You have not shown any interest in hunting or even seeking out those of the community. Why?”

“Because I’m not here for that,” Takashi says again, patiently. It’s frustrating to repeat himself, but he understands her distrust. The Covenant have slaughtered her people for generations. To the point of near extinction, most likely. He doesn’t expect her to accept him within five minutes of meeting each other. 

“Then what are you here for?”

“I’d be happy to tell you,” Takashi says. “But I’m going to put down my weapons first, and stand up. Okay? I have no interest in hurting you. I swear it.” 

She glares across at him, but finally nods. “I will permit this. Slowly.”

He does, very slowly, place the two knives on the ground in front of him before rising into a full stand. He doesn’t mind not having his most obvious defense in his hands anymore. He doesn’t think he’s in danger from this caladrius. If she does choose to attack, he has a dozen more weapons on his person to protect himself. But he’s not interested in a fight; he just wants her to understand he’s serious. 

“Thank you,” he says, as politely as possible. 

She nods curtly, before repeating her question. “What are you here for?”

“I’m in hiding,” Takashi tells her. There’s no point running through his slowly building ‘Ryou Tanaka’ cover story. She’d made it clear she knew exactly who he was. “It’s true, I was with the Covenant of St. George. I trained with them for eighteen years. But I recently began to realize that what they were doing wasn’t completely right.”

“Wasn’t _completely_ right?” she says, and lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. “It is completely wrong and disgustingly immoral. You have slaughtered _thousands_ of innocents over the course of centuries.”

The words are like a sword to the chest. Takashi’s knee-jerk reaction is to defend the people he grew up with, learned from, laughed and trained alongside. They didn’t _know_ any better. Neither did he. He’d thought he was serving _justice._

But she’s only pointing out exactly what he’d begun to suspect for a while. It hurts to be so wrong, to have so much shed blood attributed to him. But he has a feeling she’s more right than the Covenant had been.

“I know,” Takashi says quietly. “I’m starting to realize that.” 

She blinks in surprise. Like she hadn’t expected him to openly agree to those flaws.

“What the Covenant is doing...it’s not right,” Takashi continues. “I’ve recently started to suspect that most of the stories I’ve been raised on about what mon... _cryptids_ have done aren't so black and white. I learned just enough to know I don’t know anything at all. That’s not an excuse for anything I have done, but I _have_ decided I need to be better than that. I don’t want to be a part of that anymore.”

“So you expect me to believe you ran away,” Allura says. Her voice is disbelieving, but there’s a thoughtful frown on her face.

“I did,” Takashi says. “Whether or not you want to believe me, that’s the truth. I left. The Covenant doesn’t have much of a hold in America, so I figured it would be the best place to hide. I’m in this city purely by chance.”

“You’ll bring the Covenant straight to us, Shirogane,” she hisses, a little angrily.

But Takashi shakes his head. “I won’t. I covered my tracks very well. I know what they’ll look for. They won’t find me, not as long as nobody says anything.” He gives her a pointed look.

She scowls at him. “Do you think me stupid enough to tip off the Covenant of St. George as to your whereabouts? I don’t want them in my city, either.”

“Then we’re in agreement.”

She considers. “So you are not an early scout for a purge.”

Takashi is revolted at even the thought. “No! God, no. They haven’t even considered a purge in the U.S. recently, either. For now, you’re safe.”

“And what are your plans for the cryptid community in this city?” she presses, unrelenting.

“I told you. Nothing. I’m not here to hunt,” Takashi insists. “I just want to be left alone and have a chance to get out of that life.”

“You would never attack or kill a member of the community here?”

Takashi considers that very carefully. “I _will_ defend myself if I am attacked,” he says slowly. “I won’t stand by and let cryptids kill me because they know of my family’s reputation and think they have the right to put me down.”

She nods, although it looks grudging. 

“And if they attack humans,” he says slowly, “and I have hard evidence to prove they are causing harm, I will still feel obligated to stop it. If there’s no way to do that peacefully, then yes, I’ll use what I’ve been taught. But only as a last resort.”

She narrows her eyes at him challengingly. “And if the opposite were to happen? A human preying on cryptids? Covenant, or otherwise?”

“Then I would do the same,” Takashi says, after a long moment. “The innocent have the right to be protected, no matter who they are. I won’t stand by and let them be hurt.”

That’s harder to admit to. A part of him feels wrong, almost dirty, after his eighteen years of training, to admit that. It’s hard to say he would attack his own, if it came to it. 

But it isn’t right to apply that promise to protect and defend to one species and not another. If he steps in to stop a conflict and protect the innocent, it has to be for _everyone,_ human or otherwise, in the community. No matter who the aggressor is.

She considers him thoughtfully, and once again, he feels like a bug in a jar. After a long moment, she finally says, “You are not what I expected, Shirogane.”

“Considering my family’s reputation, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Takashi says quietly.

She snorts at that, although the sound is bitter. After another long moment, she finally lowers the staff.

“I will permit you to live,” she says finally. “For the moment. And to remain unaccosted. The community will most likely avoid you, but I will make it clear that they attack you at their own peril.”

“Uh...thanks. I guess.”

She nods curtly. “But understand, Shirogane, that we are watching you. I will give you this one chance, but if you kill needlessly, begin a hunt, or bring the Covenant to our city, I _will_ end you.”

“I thought caladrius were supposed to be non-violent,” Takashi says, before he can stop himself. 

Her expression is bitter. “Those of us left have been forced to evolve to survive.”

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. He means it, although it’s hardly enough. “For what the Covenant did to your people.”

She merely stares at him, not accepting the apology. But that’s alright. He hadn’t really expected her to.

“I won’t cross any lines,” he promises. “I’m not after the community. You won’t see trouble from me.” 

“Good,” she says curtly. “Then I will take my leave. Coran?”

There’s a soft click of a safety from the direction of the stairs, and a man steps out of the shadows. He’s an older gentleman, with red hair and a thick red mustache, both shot through with gray. He looks human, and by the way he carries himself, he’s probably ex-military. There’s a rifle cradled in his hands as he strides across the roof towards the caladrius. 

Takashi’s stomach does an uncomfortable flop as he realizes that rifle had probably been trained on him for the entire conversation. If he’d actually intended to harm the caladrius at all, he would have been dead before he started moving. He hadn’t even heard this man was there.

The man—Coran, presumably—nods once to Takashi with a slight smirk, clearly guessing the thoughts running through his head. “Should be safe, miss,” he says. “I didn’t see any evidence of friends. The streets are quiet right now.”

“Thank you, Coran,” the caladrius says. 

They’d both known that already, of course. Takashi suspects she’d only had her friend or bodyguard or _whoever_ this was come out intentionally, just to prove she had more power in their entire meeting than he’d realized. 

She’d been successful.

The caladrius leaps gracefully off the edge of the building and soars into the air, wings spread wide. She can move quite fast in the air, and disappears in a matter of moments around one of the buildings. 

Her bodyguard remains, watching Takashi carefully, until she’s out of sight. Just in case he’s about to whip a sniper rifle out of midair and gun her down, presumably. Once she’s no longer visible, though, he strides over towards Takashi, transferring the rifle to one hand as he reaches inside his coat pocket.

Takashi tenses, but no weaponry comes out. Instead, Coran pulls out a business card, with a single phone number on it. 

“Call that, if you ever have one of those situations you were talking about,” he says. “Self defense, or protecting someone else. She’ll want to hear it from you first.” 

Takashi blinks, but takes the card. 

“Hope your story is true,” the man adds, as he heads for the door leading downstairs from the roof. He glances over his shoulder once, and his expression is still a little distrustful, but it _seems_ like he wants Takashi’s story to be real. “Be a real shame if I had to kill you.”

“Be a real shame to have to be killed by you,” Takashi answers. “I’m sure I won’t like what I did to deserve it.”

Coran grins at him, and then disappears through the door, out of sight.

* * *

Several weeks go by in which Takashi doesn’t see or hear from either of them again. 

That’s fine with him, because it gives him plenty of time to do his homework. He checks and double-checks his entry into the country, but his alibi is solid, at least through human channels. He doesn’t know how the caladrius knew who he was or when he’d crossed the border, but it’s not the same way the Covenant would figure it out. That means he _should_ still be comfortably hidden from them.

Once he’s reassured there, he researches the caladrius herself. Finding her is tricky, and in the end he actually discovers who she is not through her, but her helper. Coran isn’t a common name, and he’s human, which means he has to be on record _somewhere,_ unless he’s sporting a fake identity too. She’s too obviously a cryptid to pass as human for very long, which means he probably acts as her intermediary to functioning human society. Somebody has to have seen him _somewhere._

He does eventually get a hit. Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, former Lieutenant in the New Zealand Defense Force, Army branch, honorably discharged over twenty years ago. Now in service to the illustrious House Altea, an old-money family long established in the country, known for their philanthropy and support of medical technologies and research funds. The main members of the household were known to be reclusive and infrequent to visit parties or grand events, but were known to be generous with their money all the same. Current head of household was one Allura Altea, rarely seen in public due to an illness since childhood that left her weak after too much activity. 

Illness. Of course. Takashi is sure her infrequent visits to the spotlight have nothing to do with her large wings and taloned feet. The entire family was probably ‘reclusive’ for that reason.

Knowing who she is makes him feel better, and certainly explains her vicious defense of the city. The prestige of her household would not only put her in a position of power with humans, but in an excellent position to protect or assist the cryptids of the city as well. His sudden arrival had probably worried her into thinking that might be jeopardized. He can hardly blame her for her reaction. 

He knows who she is, but he doesn’t act on the knowledge. He’d meant what he said. He has no interest in hunting, not her or anybody else. If trouble comes to him, or if he sees it happening around him, he’ll deal with it. Otherwise, he just wants to stay hidden.

He figures they’ve come to a grudging truce—you leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone. In the first month and a half that he’s in the city, he has no reason to contact the number Coran gave him. So he’s a little surprised when she contacts him, first.

The unknown number that pops up on his cell leaves him wary. He’s always paranoid, these days. Ignoring it is more suspicious than anything else, though, and there are better ways to drive off an unwelcome caller. He answers the call and snaps as disdainfully as possible, “This line is private. There had better be a good reason for this interruption.”

“I assure you, there is,” a clipped, familiar female voice says over the line.

He blinks. “Miss Allura! I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“Nor did I expect to call.” There’s silence for a moment on the line, before she continues slowly, “You have done your research, I see.” 

“When people threaten to break my head in with a staff, I like to know who they are,” Takashi says. 

“Fair enough,” she admits, grudgingly. “You have not done anything with that information, I notice.”

“I have no reason to,” he says. “I think your intentions are in the right place, and you’re just doing what you need to, so you can protect your city. I get that.”

There’s silence for the moment. “Your discretion is...appreciated,” she says finally.

“Of course.”

“That is the reason for my call, in fact,” she continues, pushing forward to business. “We have continued to observe you, but so far I have seen no evidence of hunting activity. I am actually beginning to believe you really were telling the truth, Shirogane.”

She still bites his surname out like it’s a curse word, and that stings a little. But still, progress is progress. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Like I told you before, I’m not interested in hurting anyone.”

“That is precisely why I have a proposition for you.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, although she can’t see it. “Proposition?”

“Yes. We are in agreement that neither of us want the Covenant to come to this city. That means keeping cryptid activity unobtrusive. If members of the community begin murdering humans wholesale, or if people begin disappearing or unusual happenings are reported, it will catch their attention. Am I correct in this assumption?”

“Yes,” Takashi says quietly. Covenant agents were always combing through international news for reports of odd happenings and strange murders or disappearances. The things normal human police and investigations couldn’t explain, or things brushed off as irresponsible hoaxes, were often indications of some kind of cryptid activity. 

“I do my best to protect this community,” Allura continues. “I encourage good relations, mediate disputes, and use my family’s influence to provide necessities to those in the community who struggle to gain access to them. I do everything in my power to ensure the Covenant has no reason to bring my city under scrutiny. But the city is growing, and sometimes things happen regardless.”

He’s beginning to see where this is going. “And you want someone to help you clean up those problems before they catch attention higher up.”

“Yes,” Allura says. “Peacefully, if possible. But if not, your...skill-set would be invaluable to protecting the rest of the community. And if the Covenant has no reason to look this way—if they do not see trouble—than both of us benefit.”

“I see.”

He doesn’t exactly like the idea of being her on-call ex-Covenant assassin. But honestly, she’s not wrong. If the Covenant has reason to look this way, both of them—and thousands of other cryptids, living in the city—will suffer. 

Besides, she’s not asking him to do anything more than what he’d already planned to do. If there are cryptids preying on humans, obviously enough to potentially draw the eye of the Covenant, Takashi would feel obligated to put a halt to it regardless. The only difference, with Allura’s resources at his disposal, is that he’d have a much wider field of view to act on. 

“This would extend to humans attacking cryptids, as well,” Allura adds, fiercely insistent. “A peaceful solution sought first, but if they persist...I will not permit my people, those in _my_ community, to suffer at the hands of humans. I would expect your intervention in these cases as well.”

That’s only fair. He’d said he would do as much. And humans deliberately attacking cryptids has just as much potential to bring the Covenant down to Garrison as the other kind of story. Most humans won’t believe the crackpot on the news claiming he’s driven chupacabra away from his herds, but the Covenant will, and they _will_ come.

It’s more or less what he’d planned to do, if he’d ever come across these sorts of things while in hiding. But is this _really_ a job he wants to accept? He hadn’t wanted to live this kind of life. He’d just wanted to get out, because he hadn’t understood enough to make the right decisions.

That’s what it’s all about. Knowing _enough._

“I’ll agree to this proposition, with one stipulation,” Takashi says.

He can practically hear her frowning over the line. “And that would be?”

“I want to learn more about the community,” Takashi says. “The Covenant taught us to kill because it was us versus them, and I was never taught anything about the enemy besides that they were dangerous and evil. That was wrong. I won’t do that again for you, either, just because _you_ tell me someone is wrong. If I’m going to be protecting this community, I want to _understand_ it. I need to be a _part_ of it. I need to know enough to know I’m doing the right thing.”

There’s silence for a long moment over the line. Then, in a rather surprised tone, Allura says, “That can be arranged. I think. It will take time, but I have many connections. Some may be willing to listen.” More silence, and then, “You really do surprise me, Shirogane.”

“Please,” Takashi says. “If we’re really going to be doing this, call me Takashi. I want nothing to do with that name.”

“Takashi, then,” she agrees. Maybe he’s imagining it, but her voice sounds slightly less icy than it had a moment before. “I will be in contact if I hear of a situation I require your help with.”

“I’ll be here,” Takashi says.

* * *

Allura’s more willing to trust him, clearly, but even so, they start off slow. A non-sentient ahool colony feeding on humans in the southern districts is his first official job from her. Ten of the creatures form a group, and people start disappearing, no doubt becoming dinner for the colony. It’s mostly been humans, but a couple of non-aggressive cryptids have been swarmed too.

They can’t be reasoned with, and relocating them would be almost impossible. So Takashi kills them as quickly and efficiently as possible, before the human body count gets so high the Covenant is sure to take notice. He disposes of the creatures and the evidence, and brings Allura whatever information he can about the victims. None had been left alive, but at least she can do whatever possible for the families.

Allura is grudgingly impressed with his work, and even admits to it. Takashi considers it a victory.

Over time, there are more missions. A mara willfully and carelessly siphoning life energy from humans, leading to multiple deaths. A trafficking ring run by humans for ‘exotic’ cryptid species. Out of control poltergeists and ghosts. Human witches manipulating power and people for personal gain. A string of arson cases tied to a fire elemental.

Takashi does what he can to deal with all of them. He usually tries a peaceful approach first, offering a warning if possible. A good scare is enough to make some cryptids or humans behave themselves and stop endangering the community. 

But sometimes that’s not enough. And if there are innocent lives endangered—immediately on the mission itself, or long-term with the risk of the Covenant discovering them—then Takashi will do what has to be done to protect those who need him.

He does good work for the community, and as months pass, he starts to feel a little better about himself. Nothing can ever make up for the things he’d done with the Covenant, or the things he’d seen them do to others. But at least he can try to make amends. Each successful mission for Allura reduces the guilt, if only a little. It’s a start.

And if nothing else comes out of his partnership with Allura to protect Garrison, at least his first step towards earning his trust in the cryptid community does. Starting with Allura herself.

It takes three months of working with her seriously before she really begins to thaw towards him, but she does, eventually, begin to seriously trust him. On that day, he returns to their neutral meeting place on a rooftop from a mission with humans creating illegal revenants, sporting a deep gash in his left arm that he’d hastily bandaged. On that day, she finally seems to look at him and really _see_ him for the first time.

“I am sorry,” she says. “I have been...unkind.” 

“Not sure what you mean.” 

“I have only seen and heard the Covenant every time I’ve spoken to you,” she says. “And they have done...unspeakable things to my people. To hundreds of other cryptid species in the community. All I could see was another murderer.”

Takashi’s heart pangs, but he says nothing. There’s nothing he could say that would be right. 

“But I have been so focused on the group you belong to I have not seen the person,” Allura finishes. “And in that, I am no better than the very society that I loathe, seeing ‘monsters’ where there are _people._ You have done a great many things to protect this community already, even though most of them distrust and fear you, and spurn you behind your back.”

“They have a right to that,” Takashi says. “Like you’ve said…my family has done terrible things.”

“You are not your family,” she says firmly. “I am sorry it took me this many months to learn that, _Takashi.”_

And she reaches forward, places her hand over the gash on his left arm, and closes her eyes. Her wings shimmer faintly, and so does her hand. The gash beneath the bandage itches for a moment, but then the sensation recedes. When he peels the gauze back, the cut is gone, and only the bloodstained hole in his sleeve proves he’d even been wounded.

He blinks, shocked. So the rumored healing powers _were_ true. “You didn’t have to do that. After everything the Covenant did for those abilities—”

“They are mine by birthright, to use willingly, as I so choose,” Allura says firmly. “Who I choose to heal is up to me, and no other.” 

Fair enough. “Thank you, then,” he says. “That will definitely save me some time.”

Allura nods. “I intend to speak for you more seriously with the community in the future,” she adds. “Assure them that you really _are_ on their side. Not all of them will accept at first. Many will still be wary. And some will never accept you, particularly the yōkai. But if I speak for you, perhaps it will be a start.”

That’s an even better gift than the healing. “Thank you,” Takashi says, breaking into a wide grin. “Really. I appreciate it.”

Allura nods. Behind her, the ever-present Coran winks at him around her wings. 

“Now then. Shall we go over the details of the mission? What exactly did you discover?”


	3. Angelos dhalion: Part Two

“There’s no such thing as doing absolutely _no_ harm...everybody hurts and is hurt, in a grand cycle of being alive. But minimizing the damage...that matters.”  
—Sarah Zellaby, _Imaginary Numbers_

**_Inside an impressively secure apartment in Garrison City_ **

Three years later, Takashi wakes to the sound of his cell phone ringing.

He groans and cracks an eye open, checking the time. Nine in the morning. He’d slept in far later than he usually likes to, but he’d been up late last night between his job, and picking up a shipment of reagents for his _other_ job. 

He’s tempted to let the phone keep ringing and close his eyes for another ten minutes. But the ringtone is Allura’s, and that means she probably has a mission he needs to get involved in. He crawls a hand out of the sheets and paws around at his nightstand until he manages to grab the cell and drag it back to him. 

“Hey,” he mutters, voice still thick with sleep.

“Did I wake you?” she asks, sounding amused. “I thought you were an early riser, Takashi.”

“Early rising is predicated on an early bedtime,” he says through a yawn. 

“You need to stop keeping the studio open so late.”

“Need to. People need me. I’m finally starting to earn a little trust. I can’t let that go.”

Allura sighs on the other end. “Very well. I understand. But I’m afraid tonight will be a late night, as well.”

“About what I figured. What’s up?”

“I’d rather not speak of it over the phone. Come to the penthouse as soon as possible and I can give you all the details.”

Takashi grimaces despite himself. “That bad, huh? Okay. Give me an hour and I’ll be there.” 

“Thank you. I’ll let everyone know you’re coming.” 

Takashi hangs up with another yawn, but doesn’t waste time. If Allura’s calling him this early in the morning and it’s bad, he needs to get moving. He’ll probably need as much time as he can get to prepare for...whatever it is she’s found. 

So he rolls out of bed, has a quick shower, arms himself lightly (for him) just in case, and dresses. In fifteen minutes he’s out the door, pausing at the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts. The stop is mostly for the biggest box of donut holes money can buy, but he gets himself a coffee and a bagel as well. He’s starving, and he has a feeling he’ll need it. 

The Altea penthouse is located in the heart of the city, ostensibly situated to showcase the family’s old money, but in reality perfectly situated to keep an eye on things at all times. Takashi has always thought it looked like an elegant, modern castle sitting in the middle of the city, which only emphasizes the way so many cryptids in the community treat Allura like she’s royalty. The whole building belongs to Allura’s family, but the top six floors are her living quarters specifically. It’s also decked out with a private parking garage, which Takashi now has a pass for, and has some of the swankiest security money can buy and magic can make. 

She has personal security, too—at least two dozen guards at any given time in the building, all of them various kinds of cryptids. A few humans work there as well, but most of them have always been cryptid sympathizers, and don’t carry the stigma of the Covenant.

None of them, human or cryptid, liked Takashi much at first. Many of them still don’t. Most of them seem to be of the opinion that Allura trusts him too much, giving him access to her personal floors. The general consensus is that one day he’s going to stab her in the back, pluck her feathers, and run laughing back to the Covenant. 

Takashi tries not to let it get to him. They’ve got reasons to be wary. Even after three years of working with Allura, helping to protect the cryptid community, and doing everything he can to prove he’s rejected his heritage, it’s still not enough to wipe out hundreds of years worth of reputation. He _gets_ that.

He just wishes it didn’t hurt so much. 

He parks in the garage and heads through several security checkpoints for Allura’s private elevator. By now, the guards know he won’t be parted from his weapons—Allura has even specifically stipulated he isn’t to be hassled about them. But he does do them the courtesy of letting them know he’s armed, at least. 

They finally let him through, after cataloguing (almost) everything hidden on his person. He heads into the elevator, wolfing down the last of his bagel and absently tapping the box of donut holes against his leg.

“Welcome, Takashi!” Coran greets him warmly at the elevator doors. 

“Hey, Coran,” he greets back, just as friendly. “Hope I’m not late?”

“You made excellent time,” Coran reassures cheerfully. “Miss Allura has barely had time to start setting up.”

Coran offers to take his coat, but as always, Takashi declines. That’s the way it’s always been, but it’s more of a running gag at this point between them than anything else. If three years have gotten Allura to trust him, then they’ve definitely charmed Coran, who keeps an eye out for Takashi now almost as much as he does Allura.

Takashi had asked him, once, how a human had even come to work for not just a cryptid, but a wealthy one with such influence. 

“I worked for her father, at first,” Coran had said fondly. “He was a caladrius too, of course. Saved my life in the war. I should have died from that gunshot wound...but he used his healing powers to give me another chance, at great risk to himself. I’ve served him ever since, and when he passed away, I vowed to serve his daughter, too.” 

His devotion to House Altea is impressive to say the least. Takashi had tried to figure out what his role was exactly—Manservant? Bodyguard? Intermediary?—but in the end, he’d realized Coran was a little bit of everything, and maybe a pseudo-father figure besides. He was fiercely devoted to protecting Allura, and could be suspicious of those that might be able to do her harm, like he had been with Takashi at first. But once his suspicions were assuaged, he turned out to be quite a friendly, mischievous, kind-hearted man—rather like what Takashi would expect a goofy uncle to be. 

“Miss Allura is down the hall, in the study,” Coran continues, as the elevator doors close behind him. “I trust you know your way?”

“Thanks, yes,” Takashi says. It’s a mark of how much Coran trusts him that he’s even allowed to wander there unsupervised. 

“Very well then. In that case, I need to prepare lunch—”

“HAIL!” a chorus of a hundred tiny voices cheer.

Takashi glances around. Where the entrance foyer had once been empty, there’s now dozens and dozens of mice, balanced on end tables and decorative cabinets and spread out across the floor. They might have looked like ordinary mice—if ordinary mice wore ceremonial clothing made out of old scraps of cloth and leather, and headdresses and jewelry made out of buttons, wire, candy wrappers, paper clips, pigeon feathers, and other sorts of junk one finds strewn about. Many carry staves made out of lolly-pop sticks, shaved down pencils, and occasionally the bones of some other small creature unfortunate enough to come across them. Others wave banners made on scraps of cloth and tissue paper, finely decorated with bits of paint and marker. Quite a number of them have died their white or brown fur with reds, blues, yellows, or greens. All of them stand upright on their hind paws.

These, Takashi had learned years ago, were Aeslin mice. They were a type of cryptid he’d never even heard of, despite the Covenant’s vast resources, until Allura had introduced him to her personal colony. Extraordinarily intelligent, and gifted to the last with eidetic memories and long-standing verbal traditions, Aeslin mice were exceptional at tracking history and preserving records. 

They also craved religion, and had a tendency to worship those they had deemed their gods and goddesses with an ecstatic fervor that was...overwhelming, until one was used to it. This particular colony had worshipped Allura’s family for several generations now, but before they had attached to her bloodline, their previous deities had been...unconventional. Including, but not limited to, an old rosebush, several farm animals, and a discarded stuffed toy they had discovered in a trash heap.

Takashi thinks they’re probably better off with Allura, who has the resources to protect them. Even if it does mean they extend their religious fervor to virtually anyone in her inner circle that she considers family. Including him, now.

“HAIL THE ARRIVAL OF THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS!”

“Good morning, guys,” Takashi says, addressing the congregation at large with a wave of his hand.

“HAIL THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE MORNING!”

“Riiiight.” Even if he’d known the colony for two and a half years now, ever since Allura had decided to trust him more, Aeslin mice are still a little...difficult to become fully accustomed to. “What are you all doing out here? Don’t you usually hang out further inside the penthouse?”

He doubts they’ve come to see him, specifically. He’s earned honorary High Priest status by virtue of working with Allura and being invited into her home. But he’s not important enough to have started earning religious ceremonies or feasts on their calendar yet, other than the day he was officially inducted as a ‘High Priest,’ which today isn’t. At least, he thinks it isn’t. But there probably is some other event on their extraordinarily complex calendar of religious holidays that he’s stepped into.

Sure enough, one of the mice with red dye streaks in its white fur steps forward and says shrilly, “Today is the Holy Celebration of So Help Me God I Will Kick This Door In If You Don’t Open Up Right Now!” The rest of the mice cheer, and the ones holding banners return to vigorously waving them. 

“Ah, that was an adventure,” Coran remarks, fondly, to several more cheers from the mice.

“Oh,” Takashi says. “I see. So...you’re waiting for someone to kick the door down, then?”

“HAIL!” 

“Right.” He glances over his shoulder. “It’s an elevator, so that might be difficult.”

“If it is Willed, it will Happen,” one of the mice proclaims. The others cheer in agreement. Takashi will never get used to the fact that Aeslin mice are capable of speaking in capital letters. 

“But we must be Careful,” another mouse, this one streaked with yellow dye, adds. “We must observe the Sacred Law of Do Not Come Out In Front Of The Humans For Goodness Sake How Do I Explain That, and humans may See us at the door.”

“But the Holy Scripture of the God of Great Healing and Greater Science says, lo, ‘That One Is All Right For A Human,’ and invoked the law of Some Humans Are Okay To Be in Front Of, with the High Priest of Damn It Stop Trying To Get Yourself Killed!” the red-streaked mouse argues.

“And the Lion Goddess has extended the Scripture and the Law to The High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness!” one of the blue-dyed mice adds.

“So they are considered human and not-human!”

“We may come out as long as the great portal to the land of humans beyond is closed and no one may See us!”

“So we may observe the Holy Celebration, if it is Willed!” the red-dyed mouse finishes triumphantly.

“Okay, well, I don’t want to interrupt that, and I do need to talk to Allura,” Takashi says, before he can get too heavily involved in a religious debate. 

He’s not entirely sure of the details, but he’s fairly certain there are different sects of Altean worship amongst the mice, indicated with the different dyes. He’s mostly sure the red ones are the group specifically devoted to Allura’s father, and the blue are Allura’s. He’s not really sure about the rest, although it’s a safe guess they’re devoted to other members of Allura’s family. 

He’d tried to sit down and talk to them about it, once, curious and intrigued. It had been a mistake. Aeslin religion was so complicated he’d left after six hours feeling further behind than when he’d started.

He has learned a few things that make interacting with the Aeslin mice a lot easier, though. So he holds the big box of donut holes in his hand aloft, enough to catch their attention, and says, “Allura and I need to conduct some business to protect the city. I know that will keep her away from you all for a little bit, and it will take a few of you away from your celebration. So I brought a peace offering.”

“HAIL!” several of the mice cheer. 

“Does this mean the Law of Witness for Food is invoked?” one of the green-dyed mice asks, stepping forward. This one has almost no trace of its original color left, so heavy is the green in its fur, and it wears a bird’s skull and an ornate necklace of little beads. It’s probably a religious leader of some kind. 

“Yes,” Takashi says firmly. “You know the drill.”

“We do,” the mouse proclaims. And then, louder, “The Offering is Accepted!”

“HAIL!” several of the mice cheer again.

Takashi places the box of donut holes on the floor, and the mice swarm it immediately. They dismantle it and the contents in moments, and march off with their prizes held high, doing a complicated little dance as they retreat. He’s careful to step around them and leave them to their work, but he doesn’t escape without one last “Hail the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of the Darkness!” 

“I still don’t understand why they picked such a dramatic name for me,” Takashi mutters to Coran, who beats a hasty exit with him. He’s more or less resigned himself to being worshipped, after two years, but he’s never gotten used to the title. Aeslin mice pick the names for their deities and members of the ‘priesthood,’ and the named have very little choice in the matter. 

“Could have been worse,” Coran says cheerfully. 

He is, admittedly, not wrong. It had taken the Aeslin months to settle on his ‘High Priest’ title, and during that time they had cycled through a number of others. As dramatic as his current one is, it’s still better than High Priest of No Really It’s Just A Scratch I Promise, or High Priest of Do You Even Understand What Sleep Is, which had been a solid contender for nearly two weeks and had _almost_ been the final choice.

“Maybe,” is all Takashi says in response. 

Coran gives him a knowing grin, pats him on the shoulder once, and heads off for the kitchen. Takashi, shaking his head in fond exasperation over the mice, heads for the study.

Allura is there, as promised. In her own home she’s able to wear clothing that doesn’t impede her large wings or her taloned feet. So she circles easily around the large table she has set up in the middle of the room, wearing loose sweats and an open-backed tank top designed for an extra set of appendages. 

An enormous map of the city fills the entirety of the table, with a glass sheet bolted over it to protect it. When pointing out areas of interest or searching for patterns in missions, it’s helpful to scribble all over the glass with markers, and then clean it up when the case is closed. 

Allura is in the middle of doing just that, marking several streets on the map with neat little x’s in pink pen. She looks up when Takashi enters. “Ah! Good. I was just finishing up.”

“Perfect timing. I just offered the mice Trade for Witness, so—ah, there they are,” Takashi cuts himself off, eyeing the four mice that scramble into the room from a neat hole cut into the wall. 

“Excellent,” Allura says, as the four mice clamber up on the little platform affixed to the end of the map table, left there for just such a purpose. “Thank you, my friends, for your timely arrival.”

“Hail, Lion Goddess!” one of the mice—the same fully-dyed green one from before, with the bird skull headdress—bows deeply. “We come to Witness!”

“Hail!” the other three agree. Like the green one, these ones are almost fully dyed in a solid color—blue, yellow, and red respectively. If Takashi remembers right, these are the four head priests or priestesses of their varying sects, and the leaders of the colonies. They take great pride in serving their Lion Goddess directly in all important matters.

Including witnessing—which sounds fancy and dramatic, but ultimately serves a good purpose. Aeslin mice never forget anything, and are excellent record keepers. Hard drives can be broken or infiltrated, papers can be destroyed or stolen, but Aeslin memories are forever. For Allura’s family, the creatures serve as one part stenographer, one part black box, and they can be invaluable for remembering key details at just the right moments.

Assuming one can become accustomed to all the ‘hails’ and ‘los’ and Spoken Capitals interjected every thirty seconds, anyway.

“Then let us not waste any more time,” Allura says, sweeping her wings back in a gesture Takashi has come to equate with ‘getting down to business.’ She squares her shoulders and taps on the glass surface of the map, where more than a dozen little pink x’s cluster around the same four blocks or so. “I have reason to believe we have a murderer on our hands.”

“Cryptid?” Takashi asks, circling the table and leaning over the map to pick out the street names. It’s not close to where he lives, so he’s not surprised he hasn’t heard any activity, but it’s not on the other side of the city, either.

“I have reason to suspect so,” Allura says. “Over the past three weeks, there have been a number of disappearances in this area, all human. Most have been homeless, so unfortunately there were no news or police reports. Recently three humans with family ties have disappeared in the same area, though, two young women and a young man. Their families reported their disappearances to the police, who are now investigating.”

“But not well, I take it,” Takashi says, frowning. “They’re probably looking for a predator, but not the right kind.”

Allura nods in agreement, lips pressed together grimly. “So far they suspect a serial kidnapper, or a sexual predator searching for young adult victims, based on the three known disappearances.”

“But that doesn’t explain the homeless people who disappeared,” Takashi agrees. “Which they may or may not even know about. It sounds more like someone was looking for easy marks.” Or a lazy dinner. “When did the disappearances happen?”

“Always at night,” Allura says. “I could find no indication of any kidnappings during the day.”

“There is a Pattern,” one of the mice, the yellow-dyed one, intones after a moment. “Lion Goddess, the days you have noted are five days apart always by the human calendar.”

“Thank you, Platt,” Allura says, with a gracious nod.

“So a night-prowling cryptid looking for an easy mark or an easy meal on a regularly scheduled basis,” Takashi summarizes. “Homeless people are easy to disappear off the streets, but drunk or high young adults heading home at night can’t put up much of a fight either. So far it looks like kidnappings, but none of the victims have reappeared?” 

“None,” Allura confirms.

Takashi sighs. They’re probably dead, unfortunate as it is. But he can at least do what he can to prevent more disappearances from happening. 

“When was the last disappearance?” he asks, glancing in the direction of the mice.

The blue-dyed one steps forward. “The last date was four days ago by the human calendar, High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness!” it recites.

Which means the next ‘disappearance’ is most likely going to happen tonight, Takashi realizes grimly.

“I’ll canvass the area today,” he decides. Allura’s done everything she can with her resources, he’s sure. But while some cryptids have excellent ways of dealing in information, they can also be somewhat limited in actions they can take in the field without catching unwanted attention. That’s where Takashi comes in—he can wander the streets all day hunting for clues, and at worst people will only consider him a nosey tourist. 

Allura nods in agreement. “For now, the story is contained,” she says. “Other than very local news sources, the incidents have not warranted much attention, since they do not know the extent of the disappearances. But if this continues, it will draw Covenant attention.” 

Takashi agrees. This is exactly the sort of story they were excellent at sniffing out. A few more deaths, and they’ll have a new sort of murderer breathing down their necks. She’d been right to call him in as soon as possible. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Thank you.” 

It’s nearly eleven by the time he manages to extricate himself from the numerous _hails_ and _praises_ and ritualistic good-bye’s of the mice, and when he finally does, he’s eager to get to the potential murder site. There’s still a dozen types of cryptids he can think of off the top of his head that had the potential to be their killer, and he won’t know for sure until he can examine the area further. 

What he _does_ know is their predator only strikes at night, which means they’re probably either injured by or just uncomfortable in daylight. Takashi intends to use as much of it as possible to prepare. 

The blocks Allura had indicated are in a middle-income section of the city, adjacent to a few of the seedier parts of town but not actually in them. There’s several apartment structures, a twenty-four hour coffee shop, a few convenience stores, a bar, and a sandwich shop spread out over the target streets, which will hopefully give Takashi plenty to work with.

He spends the rest of his daylight canvassing the area. He starts with the people—bartenders and baristas, clerks at the convenience stores, regulars to the establishments. Allura had provided him with a photograph of the most recent victim, a young woman named Nicole Ryder, and he flourishes it with faked anxiousness as he inquires about when the last time his ‘cousin’ may have been seen. 

Most people don’t know anything, and offer him either sympathetic looks, bored indifference, or narrow-eyed suspicion. But a few can offer little details here and there. The bartender remembers her being a little tipsy when she’d come in close to midnight, so he’d refused to serve her, which is a start.

“Told the cops this too,” he adds, with a raised eyebrow.

“They won’t tell us anything,” Takashi says, with an excellent show of nervous worry. “It’s ‘under investigation.’ I just want to bring her home. Please.”

“Yeah, sure,” the bartender says, apparently buying the story. “I offered to call her a cab, but she refused and said she was gonna go home herself. Took a left out the door.”

“Thanks,” Takashi says, and follows after the weak trail he’s given.

A few others remember her too, if vaguely. She had been seen a little after midnight, upon leaving the bar, but nobody can place her anywhere by one in the morning. Takashi knows from Allura’s research that she doesn’t live close enough to have reached home so quickly, not while on foot and tipsy. He has a window for disappearance.

They’re also able to shed some light on the ‘kidnapper,’ speaking in hushed whispers. Most refuse to go outside after eleven or so, not without being in groups. One man, around thirty or so, begrudgingly tells Takashi a story of heading home late last week after midnight, and spotting a man in a hoodie and cap.

“Couldn’t see his face,” the man admits. “But he...look, don’t tell anyone this?”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Takashi promises.

“He made me feel...weird,” the man says. “Like...I wanted to run. Just _run._ Get away. It really freaked me out, y’know? I’ve refused taking overtime at work since then. It’s stupid, but…”

It wasn’t stupid. Human instinct had survived shockingly well despite human nature’s desire to pretend the creatures under the bed didn’t exist. Those survival instincts to hide, run, or fight, passed down through evolutionary chains, had been one of the reasons they’d survived alongside so many cryptids with so much more strength, skill, or intelligence. 

There was no doubt about it, not now. There _was_ a cryptid making humans disappear here. Now Takashi just has to find them.

He searches the whole area carefully, heading down alleys and discreetly observing apartment complexes for alternate entrances or places to hole up in. If something is hunting here, no matter what the reason, they need someplace to go to ground during the day. Any one of these places could be an option. So could the sewers, he notes as he spots a manhole cover, wrinkling his nose. Sewer diving is not his favorite pastime, but if it comes to it, he’ll do it.

He doesn’t find any human bodies or evidence of scuffles in the alleyways. He didn’t really expect to, but it was always best to be thorough. Which is why he _is_ a little surprised when he finds bodies of the non _-_ human variety. 

Specifically, rats. 

Specifically, exsanguinated rats, with the bodies stuffed behind dumpsters like hidden evidence. 

That’s a little puzzling, especially when he asks around as casually as possible and finds it’s not the first time it’s happened. The locals have found a few other dead rats, mice, pigeons, squirrels, and the occasional raccoon, but they’d mostly thought the creatures had been exterminated by pest control or killed by a prowling alley cat. Takashi has a feeling most of them were missing their liquid insides.

It does narrow down Takashi’s list of potential suspects; there are only so many cryptids that live on a liquid diet. But he can’t imagine why one might possibly be taking humans, and also hunting the local wildlife. 

It’s a curious puzzle, but one he can figure out later. He’s pretty sure he has what he needs by the time dinner rolls around. There’s nothing further he can do for now; the attacker doesn’t seem to come out until around eleven pm at the earliest, when there will be less witnesses. He’ll be back before then. 

For now, he packs up for the evening and gets ready for work.

‘Work,’ for Takashi, is a self-owned business. Not long after Allura had officially started to trust him, _actually_ trust him, he’d decided he’d had enough of just hiding. It was exhausting to constantly look over his shoulder, and to try and stay out of sight as much as possible. 

Caution was necessary, but he didn’t want to live like a ghost. That wasn’t in his nature. He wanted to _do_ things. Help people. Make a difference. That’s the one ideal he’d grown up on that he still firmly believes in, despite all he’s been through. 

So he’d started up a self defense studio. He’d had more than enough capital to rent a location, and more than enough skill with cover stories and forgeries to give ‘Ryou Tanaka’ all the necessary credentials to do so. 

During the day he has regular classes, mostly for human women and children, to teach them how to protect themselves from human attackers and what signs of trouble to look for. He’s helped more than a few members of his clientele with sticky situations, walks some of them home if they still feel unsafe, and he always has a list of support numbers pinned on his office door if anyone ever needs anything he can’t help with. 

By now, ‘Ryou Tanaka’ has a sterling reputation among humans. Most people like and trust him, or feel safe around him. Takashi likes _not_ having a stigma assigned to at least one part of him. It’s refreshing. 

More recently in the past year or so, he’s started night classes as well. These aren’t for humans, not usually. His clientele for these classes are cryptids, and his lessons aren’t dealing with the average human predator. Muggers and stalkers aren’t a problem for the vast majority of cryptids, who have their own methods of defense against humans who picked the wrong victim. No, these classes teach how to defend against the Covenant—the things that will draw their attention, their weapons and methods, the things they know about whatever species he’s teaching. 

It’s slow going, the second half of his business. Most cryptids still don’t trust Takashi, and they have a right not to. But Allura has kept her end of the bargain, and has been working hard to introduce Takashi to some cryptid circles, and Takashi’s been doing his own work to ensure he’s trustworthy. 

And slowly now, he’s started to see some hesitant trust. Many of his cryptid students are kinds that are largely harmless, or defenseless if their one protection of camouflage is seen through, like madhura or sylphs. They’re afraid of him, but they’re afraid of the Covenant more, and they’re willing to trust Allura’s word enough to learn from him. 

It’s slow progress, but it _is_ progress. Hopefully one day Takashi Shirogane’s reputation will be as sterling as Ryou Tanaka’s. 

But tonight there are no cryptid lessons, which is probably for the best. He has one evening class that goes well, and then he closes up the studio for the night and heads home to prepare for the evening’s hunt.

He’s not sure what he’s fighting, still. But he has some rough ideas, so he packs a little of everything, just to be safe. He arms himself to the teeth with a pair of handguns, a dozen throwing knives hidden around his person, the police batons, a small taser, and a garrote. In the pouches on his belt he stores away several different charms, herbs and reagents, many of which can incapacitate certain kinds of cryptids. He brings standard ammunition for the firearms, but he makes sure he has silver and copper rounds too, just to be safe. 

There are a lot of things he loathes that he ever learned while with the Covenant. But the one thing they had drilled into his head that he still takes very seriously is to always be prepared for anything. 

The one thing he’s learned more recently, since living in Garrison, is that most of those skills he’d learned with the Covenant can still be applied in good ways. Tonight, he’ll be using Covenant skills, but he’ll be using them to protect. _Really_ protect, understanding in full what he’s doing. 

Now fully prepared, he heads back to the murder site, parks his car six blocks away just in case, and climbs up to perch on top of the bar. As far as he can tell, the kidnapper cases a lot of their victims from this area, now that they’ve gotten bolder and progressed passed helpless homeless individuals. If he’s going to see them anywhere, Takashi will see them here.

By ten at night, he’s fully settled in, and he waits.

 _Patience yields focus_ is an old Shirogane adage he’s been able to recite since he was two. Patience also yields results, and this time is no different. By midnight, Takashi catches his first sign of movement across the street, and spots the silhouette in one of the alleys. The figure is still on the other side, waiting, and Takashi stays still as well so he won’t be spotted.

By twelve thirty, a young man—college senior? Post grad?—stumbles out of the bar, clearly intoxicated. Takashi makes idle note of him, like he has for the past six patrons that have stumbled out of the bar. But his focus grows more pronounced when the figure on the other side of the street moves, following the drunk patron. 

Showtime, then.

It’s still hard to tell exactly what kind of cryptid this is, in the dark. But they’re humanoid, which cuts a few possibilities off the list, and built large enough they’re most likely male. The stalker is preoccupied following his victim, presumably waiting for a good chance to pull him off the street to a secluded area. He doesn’t notice Takashi slipping off the roof of the bar with practiced ease. 

Takashi doesn’t take his eyes off the cryptid as he follows them. This guy’s _okay_ at stealth—he’s smart enough at least to keep out of streetlights and watch where he’s going. But Takashi is better, and he’s had practice hunting actual cryptids with enhanced senses and defenses, not helpless, inebriated humans. The cryptid doesn’t even know he’s there.

They turn a corner into an area with less working streetlights, and the cryptid makes his move. Takashi’s expecting it, so he doesn’t miss the way the stalker lunges forward, snags the drunk college grad by the collar, covers his mouth, and hauls him into a side alley. 

Takashi follows quickly. This will work better for him, anyway. If it turns less peaceful, less witnesses are preferred.

The drunk graduate is already pinned against one of the walls, eyes wide and rolling with fear. He struggles, but he’s uncoordinated and weak, and his attacker is practiced and ready. He tries to call out, but his cries are muffled by the hand shoved over his mouth. His attacker leers, and Takashi catches a glimmer of long, sharp, shark-like teeth.

He sighs. Damn it. He’d been hoping it wasn’t a ghoul.

“Enough,” he barks, stepping into the alleyway. “Let him go.”

Both look over at him, surprised. The human whimpers pleadingly. The ghoul looks startled, but then his leer returns, deliberately showing off his long, sharp teeth. “Beat it,” he hisses. “You have no clue what you walked into here, pal.” 

“Pretty sure I do,” Takashi says. “I’m only going to say this _once,_ so this is your one chance _._ The ruling house in the city orders you to stand down immediately. You stop preying on humans and you get the hell out of Garrison. She _will_ know if you don’t. And I won’t be so nice then.” 

He never mentions Allura’s name directly in these encounters. If this grad remembers this after, Takashi doesn’t want Allura implicated in any way that could get her into trouble. The cryptids know who she is, and that’s all that matters.

The ghoul rolls his eyes. “Then tell her royal fuckin’ highness if she wants to stop me, she can come down here herself, and I can taste what bird meat is like,” he sneers. “Beat it, or I’ll eat you after.” 

So that’s a ‘no’ on the peaceful approach, then. 

The ghoul turns and opens his mouth wide—far, far wider than looks natural on a human face—and lurches forward towards his victim. The drunk grad squeals through the hand still over his mouth, and struggles harder to get away.

The knife blossoms in the ghoul’s shoulder in seconds. The ghoul shrieks in surprise and jerks away instinctively, dropping his intended dinner as he presses his hand to the hilt now sticking out of his skin. “The _fuck?”_ he snarls, glaring at Takashi.

Takashi already has two more knives out as he paces forward. He doesn’t want to risk the guns here, not with a defenseless civilian, in between two apartment complexes. “I told you I wasn’t going to be nice,” he reminds the ghoul. 

The ghoul’s eyes widen as he starts to put two and two together. “You’re the Shirogane,” he hisses. “The one she’s got on a leash!”

Takashi doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just paces closer. The ghoul does probably the first sensible thing he’s thought of this evening: he turns tail, and bolts. 

It’s not quite finished yet, but Takashi takes a moment to crouch next to the victim, neatly slipping his knives away. The young man sags against the wall, shaking like a leaf, and smells strongly of alcohol and urine. He regards Takashi with wild-eyed alarm, and stammers, “T-teeth…”

“You’re _very_ drunk, buddy,” Takashi says, as soothingly as he can. It’s almost funny, talking to him like he’s a kid—the guy looks like he could even be a year or two older than Takashi—but he’s obviously way out of his comfort zone here. “He was just a mugger. Can you do something for me? Can you get back to the bar and ask for a cab home?”

“I…” the man blinks for a moment, then nods shakily.

“Great. I need you to go do that, then,” Takashi says, putting an arm under the man’s shoulder and hauling him to his feet. He gives him a gentle push in the right direction.

The man stumbles, but then regains his footing. He squints at Takashi for a moment, and asks shakily, “Are you some kinda super hero?”

“Nope. Just passing by,” Takashi says. “Go _home,_ lock your door, drink some water and go to bed.” In the morning, he probably won’t remember any of this, and if he does, he’ll probably just remember getting waylaid by a mugger. Humans are exceptional at not seeing the things right in front of their faces that they’re too uncomfortable admitting to.

The man nods, and Takashi turns and follows after the attacker.

The ghoul hasn’t gotten very far, and he’s not doing a very good job of covering his tracks. He’s used to preying on the homeless, or inebriated victims, and has clearly never had to worry about covering his trail. After some of the things Takashi has hunted in the past, it’s almost child’s play to track him six blocks over, in the seedier area of the city. 

He slings another knife ahead of the ghoul, which causes the would-be killer to draw up short and whip around in alarm.

“I’ll say this one last time,” Takashi says. “No more victims. There are other ways to get you the meals you need. She’s willing to help you with that. You keep this up, you’ll draw the wrong attention.”

“Fuck you!” the ghoul shrieks angrily, and hurls himself at Takashi.

The ghoul is fast, but not inhumanly so. Ghouls are by nature more or less comparable to humans—they are even evolutionary cousins—which means they don’t have senses or strengths much greater than what a human is capable of. Moreover, this one is lazy, and used to taking helpless prey, not fighting for his meals. Takashi deflects the snap of the jaws at his face easily by cuffing the ghoul upside the head, and follows up with a quick kick to knock his attacker back into a wall.

“I don’t want to have to kill you,” Takashi tries, one last time. “But if you force my hand, I will.”

This time the ghoul’s answer isn’t even words, just an angry snarl. He hurls himself forward again, jaws gnashing, trying to rip a bite out of Takashi’s flesh. A single ghoul bite can get infected very quickly; their mouths and teeth are vile. 

Takashi hates this part. But he’s given more than enough chances, and the ghoul hasn’t taken any. And now, it seems, it’s down to kill or be killed. 

So he does what he’s been trained to do for years. 

The ghoul lunges, and Takashi has the knives ready before seconds have passed. The knife through the eye and into the brain is quick, efficient, and relatively painless; about as merciful a death as he can make it. The ghoul grunts once, his other eye wide in shock, and collapses in mid-run. The body hits the grimy pavement, rolls and skids once or twice, and falls still. 

“I’m sorry,” Takashi says. “I really didn’t want to have to do that, but you were putting others in danger. I’m so sorry.”

The ghoul doesn’t answer, but the stare from the one remaining eye is almost accusing. Takashi sighs, exhausted by the whole affair, but retrieves his weaponry. 

This is a part of the job he’ll never grow to like. But at least, this time, he knows what he’s doing _is_ protecting victims. The immediate ones, and a city full of potential ones as well.

It’s a thought he clings to with each of these missions, and it makes the guilt hurt a little less.

* * *

Cleanup from the mission is relatively straightforward, mostly because the Covenant was very thorough in teaching how to cover one’s tracks after a kill.

Disposing of the body is the first and most important thing. It can’t go to a morgue and the police certainly can’t take it, or there will be a lot of questions about this human victim that isn’t human at all and probably isn’t on any kind of public register. Fortunately, or perhaps not, Takashi has ways of getting rid of the body, and Allura’s contacts can make it disappear forever. 

He also decides to check in with the bartender, just to make sure the victim made it. It’s a different bartender, fortunately, so he won’t be recognized as the same man searching for his ‘cousin’ earlier that day. The bartender does confirm that a disheveled, very drunk college grad had returned, rambling about a frightening mugging, and had been sent home in a cab. Takashi is relieved to hear it. At least one victim was going to make it home.

With the immediate issues taken care of, he spends half an hour searching for the ghoul’s hide-away. He finds it not far from where he’d made the kill, and shakes his head in disbelief. The ghoul had been so focused on getting away he’d all but led Takashi to his lair. It was incredibly stupid to show the enemy your safehome; the ghoul must have thought he could get away with anything. They were lucky they’d avoided Covenant scrutiny at all.

There’s not much in the hideout, an old basement level of an abandoned apartment complex, and he hadn’t been living with any other ghouls. That was a blessing, at least. 

Takashi finds a few trophy remnants of the other victims—a purse, a wallet, a cellphone with a dead battery—but no other victims. He hadn’t expected any. Ghouls preferred decayed flesh, but they would eat every single part of a living human. The victims had been eaten alive days ago. There was nothing left to be rescued.

He collects the remnants together, at least. He’ll bring them to Allura, and she can make sure the police are discreetly notified and the items are returned to the families of the victims. At least they can get a little closure, with confirmation that their loved ones aren’t ever coming back.

The whole case wraps up cleanly in less than twenty-four hours. Takashi leaves the area feeling...not _satisfied,_ because having to make a kill is never satisfactory _..._ but at least _better,_ knowing things are safer again. 

It isn’t until the next morning, after delivering the evidence and updating Allura and the mice on the results, that he remembers the exsanguinated rats. 

Ghouls don’t drain their prey of liquids. A ghoul would eat the animals whole, blood, organs, muscle and bone, assuming they were hunting living things.

Which means there’s still a problem in that neighborhood, and Takashi has no idea when it will strike next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters for Halloween :)
> 
> This fic is 100% completed, and I will continue posting chapters every 2-3 days until everything is up. Thank you for reading, and I hope you continue to enjoy!


	4. Venandi sapiens: Part One

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my family history, it’s that sometimes responsibility and proximity are the same damn thing.”   
—Verity Price,  _ Chaos Choreography  _

**_The other side of town, probably wasting time_ **

Takashi’s not entirely sure what he expects to accomplish, heading back to the scene of the attacks the next day at dusk. But he has to at least check everything out one more time. Just to be certain.

There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for the exsanguinated rats he’d found. There are some blood-drinking cryptids out there who are perfectly harmless to humans, provided they aren’t attacked first, like the chupacabra. It could be happenstance. 

But it could also be a sign of a problem. The ghoul’s kills could easily mask the activities of a competitor. And now that Takashi’s removed the competition, someone else could step out and start hunting humans. 

He’d never forgive himself if he saw a sign of danger and ignored it, to the detriment of innocent people. So he goes back to check it out again. Just for his peace of mind.

He’s glad he does. He cases the whole place again quietly before dark, and finds a couple more dried out rats and mice hidden away that he’s absolutely certain weren’t there when he’d left. They had to have been killed and drained between now and the time he’d made the ghoul kill and cleaned up the evidence last night.

He knows the cryptid doing this has to be nocturnal, or at least very stealthy, because nobody had reported seeing any of the animals get attacked during the day. That most likely limits things to a very narrow window somewhere after two in the morning to sunrise. 

“It’s gonna be another long night,” he grumbles to himself. It’s a good thing he’s used to functioning on almost no sleep. He buys a coffee from the twenty-four hour shop in the area, climbs up on a rooftop, tucks one earbud in for some late-night stakeout music, and settles in for the wait. 

By ten at night, he seriously considers the value of staying the whole time. Part of him wants to go home, catch a few Z’s, and come back during what he’s fairly certain is his target time table. But he also wouldn’t forgive himself if somebody died because he’d wanted a nap and wasn’t there to stop anything. So he stays. 

Patience yields focus, but it doesn’t do much for a bored mind.

By two in the morning the bar has closed, lights are out in most of the apartments in the area, and there’s almost no activity on the streets. The coffee shop is still open, but only has one bored barista manning the counter, and a single night owl reading a book and sipping on a late-night coffee on the inside. Nothing suspicious there. 

Takashi pays closer attention now, and stores his earbuds away. He hasn’t seen any unusual activity so far. But if he’s right, now’s the time his perpetrator should be sneaking about, assuming he hasn’t completely missed something.

By three, he starts to wonder if maybe he was overreacting. There’s still no activity, and the streets are dark and empty. There’s not even any movement in the alleys, apart from the occasional rodent scurrying past. 

By three thirty he’s almost ready to call it a bust. This is the most lifeless the city will get, but in an hour the early morning commuters are going to start coming out to get ready for work, and not long after that the sun will start to think about rising. Any nocturnal cryptid that can’t handle sunlight would be thinking about getting close to their safehomes for the day by now. He must have missed whoever it was.

But then, by a stroke of luck, he spots it: a movement in one of the alleyways, belonging to a distinctly humanoid figure.

Takashi is on the move immediately, prowling over the rooftops and leaping from building to building when he needs to. He moves cautiously, because he can tell within less than ten seconds that the figure is extremely skittish. They move slowly and with many pauses, acting more like a prey animal than predator, and they freeze at even the slightest hint of a noise or movement. He doesn’t want to spook them before he’s had a chance to observe.

But he manages to get close enough to see relatively quickly, even despite his caution, slipping carefully down a fire escape and staying close to the shadows. And when the figure gets close enough to a street light and glances around carefully, Takashi can make out the first details of very pale skin, and red eyes that flash in even a little bit of light.

Everything clicks suddenly.  _ Vampire.  _

Contrary to popular lore (and even more popular teen romance novels), vampires are not classified as ‘undead.’ They’re perfectly alive mammals, and cousins to the ghoul family, which is also often mistaken for being dead. But their exceedingly slow metabolisms, equally slow biology, and tendency towards pale skin often give an impression of a death-like state, which is where the confusion generally comes in. It’s not a difficult mistake to make, when their hearts only beat on average once per minute. 

Their dislike of the sun is true, however, at least in part. Younger or weaker vampires pass out during daylight hours, and prolonged exposure to sunlight is blinding and causes painful burns that can eventually lead to death. Some fully mature adult vampires can function during the day, but even then their skin and eyes—designed for nocturnal hunting—are still extremely sensitive to it. As a general rule, they still tend to avoid it like the plague. 

And they do need blood to live. Human blood is healthiest, although Takashi has read reports about vampires living in rural areas easily surviving on well-fed livestock. They don’t drain a human completely, as far as he knows. Nor do they particularly struggle with the presence of human blood and a violent need to feed, any more than a human would struggle to not eat a steak off someone else’s plate. In fact, an absurd number of EMT’s, surgeons and doctors  _ are  _ vampires, due to their high intelligence, delicate coordination and dexterity, and senses that can allow them to detect fatal bleeds or injuries before medical tools can. 

This one is definitely no doctor, though. Takashi’s not even sure this one is a fully mature vampire, the more he watches. He looks young—less than twenty, although with many cryptids it can be hard to tell. His long, dark hair is tangled and messy, his jacket, t-shirt and jeans are ripped and frayed, and his sneakers are scuffed. Another good look at his face in the next streetlight displays prominent cheekbones, and...well, ‘dried out’ is the only word Takashi can really think of to describe him. 

He frowns. This kid doesn’t look good. 

The vampire stumbles, and hastily catches himself on a wall. He stumbles again a few steps later, and lets out a harsh, shaky breath. If Takashi didn’t know any better, he’d swear the kid was drunk, but vampires don’t get drunk in the traditional sense. He doesn’t think they can even get inebriated at all, unless they’ve just consumed blood with an absurdly high alcohol content, and this kid hadn’t gone near any of the bar patrons. Takashi’s sure of it.

The kid staggers for a third time, and holds himself up against the wall for a moment, glancing around tiredly. Takashi uses the opportunity to creep a little closer, watching.

The young vampire spots a rat skittering past, and immediately makes a lunge for it.  _ That answers that question,  _ Takashi thinks. This kid was definitely the cause of the exsanguinated animals in the area.

But he misses the mark, crashing to the ground as the rat skitters between his fingers and behind a dumpster. He curses, lets out another harsh, wheezing breath, and pushes himself to his feet. Even from here, Takashi can see how much of a struggle it is for him to rise, and the way his arms and legs shake from exertion. 

Damn it. The kid isn’t drunk, he’s  _ starving.  _ Badly enough that he can’t even catch rats anymore.

Before Takashi can even consider his next steps, the twenty-four hour coffee shop’s door chimes. The book-reading night owl makes her exit, and her path takes her right near the vampire. She’s got her purse tucked tightly close and is appropriately wary of her surroundings, but she doesn’t spot the vampire sitting in the shadows at the entrance to the alley.

Takashi immediately tenses. The kid is starving, and there’s unsuspecting prey coming right this way. People, humans and cryptids alike, are known to do desperate things when they’re that hungry. If the kid attacks, he’ll have to stop it. 

But to his impressed shock, the vampire doesn’t attack. He hisses softly in surprise, and retreats farther back into the alley, ducking behind a dumpster and watching cautiously until the woman is gone. It’s only when she’s completely passed that the vampire slinks out of hiding again, returning to his stumbling, clumsy hunt for something smaller to eat. 

That settles things for Takashi. This kid is hurt and starving, but he’s got enough common sense or moral fiber or maybe both to  _ not  _ attack innocent human beings. He seems like he could be a good kid, but he needs a hand before he’s either forced into a position he’ll regret, or starves to death on the streets.

Takashi drops down to the streets from his perch on the fire escape, and approaches slowly and carefully. He keeps his hands visible and absolutely not near any weapons, and his voice soft and non-threatening. “Hey there. I’m not going to—”

He doesn’t get to finish. With a surprising amount of speed for how obviously weak he is, the vampire turns and snarls, baring the long incisors his species is well known for. He stumbles back immediately, doing his level best to back away from Takashi as fast as inhumanly possible while not taking his eyes off the perceived threat.

“Woah, woah, woah,  _ woah,”  _ Takashi says immediately, still keeping his hands up and fingers spread, as unthreatening as he can possibly make himself. “Easy, buddy. Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help. That’s all.”

The vampire is clearly not buying it. He continues to back away and show his fangs warningly. His red eyes glitter in the cast light of the streetlamps, and almost seem to glow in the dark. It would be eerie, if Takashi couldn’t clearly see the dark lines under his eyes, and the way his face seems so drawn and tight. 

This close, he realizes his earlier age estimate of twenty was way over the mark. The kid looks much closer to sixteen, now that he gets a better look at him. 

That answers a few uncomfortable questions about why the kid is out here to begin with, unfortunately. The common myth about vampires ‘turning’ humans is a complete fabrication born out of a mistake. Vampires gave birth to live young, like any other mammal. And like many other animals in other evolutionary paths, they had developed a unique sort of defensive camouflage for their offspring. Up until a certain stage of maturation, young vampires could consume some solid foods, survive in moderately sunny conditions, and retain their ‘baby teeth’ of the non-fanged variety, making them appear human for all intents and purposes. 

Once they had matured, they adjusted to an all-liquid diet and a more nocturnal lifestyle, lost their ‘baby’ teeth to grow in the distinctive fangs, and finally grew into their enhanced strength and agility. But for humans several hundred years ago, who inexplicably saw their supposed human neighbors ‘change’ into so-called monsters that fed on blood, it seemed like they had been taken against their will. 

In the modern era, it was much easier for vampires to protect their offspring and guide them through the process. But this one looks like he’s been living on the streets for months, if his clothes are any indication. If he hadn’t had anybody to teach him how to procure food or take care of himself…

Takashi wonders if he’d ever had any help with this. If he even understood what had happened to him.

“Easy,” he repeats. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help. You’re starving, buddy. I want to fix that.”

“No you don’t,” the kid rasps. His throat sounds dry, and his voice is hoarse. “You’ll kill me like that other guy.” 

Takashi winces despite himself. “That’s not my intention. That guy was killing people. You obviously don’t want to, or you would have attacked that woman.”

The kid looks startled, like he hadn’t realized Takashi was watching. Then he yelps, as he trips over a stray pile of garbage and goes down, crashing to the ground. 

Takashi takes a step forward immediately to help him, but the kid snarls at him again, and snaps his teeth warningly at Takashi’s hand. The meaning has never been clearer, although he is genuinely impressed with how much fire this kid still has in him, even in such an awful state. The kid’s a  _ fighter.  _ No wonder he’s lasted so long.

“Okay,” he says, hands still up placatingly. “Okay, I’m not going to come near you. Promise. I’m going to stay right here, and I’m not going to hurt you. Alright?”

He crouches right where he is, balanced easily on his toes. Very slowly, he drapes his arms carefully over his knees, still fully visible and definitely not near any weaponry.

The kid watches warily, but when Takashi stops coming closer, he stops snarling. Instead, he makes a valiant effort to get to his feet again, trying to push himself up with arms that shake violently. He fails, and tries a second time, and fails again, strength gone. When he realizes he’s not getting up, he resorts to crawling instead, fiercely determined as he drags himself a few precious feet away from Takashi and towards a corner of the alley.

It’s painful to watch. Takashi’s heart goes out to the poor kid. 

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeats. Maybe if he says it enough, the kid will actually believe him. “Trust me. I just want to help, okay? Can you tell me your name?”

The kid glares at him balefully. 

“Okay. You can hold on to that for now. When was the last time you fed?”

The kid glares again, but this time it’s more tired than before. His strength gives out a moment later, and he collapses in the corner. When he tries to reach out again to drag himself further, his fingers scrape weakly on the grimy pavement, but he doesn’t make any headway. 

A soft, pained whine escapes him, and he glances anxiously in Takashi’s direction. The fear in his eyes is real. He’s starving, incapable of escaping, and confronted with a known killer of at least one other cryptid. He’s probably terrified, but still doing his best to hide it.

Takashi just keeps talking and staying where he is, hoping to reinforce that he’s safe. “I just want to help you, buddy. That’s all. Have you only been eating the rats around here?”

The kid just stares at him. He’s not even glaring anymore; he seems too exhausted for anger. He might be in shock. Takashi needs to help this kid sooner rather than later. 

“Have you had any human blood?”

“Didn’t kill anyone,” the kid whispers hoarsely. There’s a vicious defensiveness in his tone, for a moment, but then his energy seems to burn out again.

“I’m not saying you did,” Takashi says patiently. “But human blood is healthiest for you right now. And you need way more blood than rats can give you. Have you had more than a pint at any one time?” 

The kid stares at him again. He struggles once more to push himself up, fails after barely rising an inch, and then wearily squeezes his eyes shut. Everything about him seems resigned. He knows he can’t run and he’s not strong enough to fight. 

And Takashi just can’t get  _ through  _ to this kid. 

But there might be one more way. “I’ll be right back,” he says, low and soothing. “I’m trying to help you, okay? Give me a chance and I will. Promise.”

The kid doesn’t answer. His eyes snap open when he hears the deliberate scuff of Takashi’s boots, but Takashi doesn’t come any closer, and after a moment he stills again as he watches Takashi walk away.

Takashi has no intention of leaving him there. Daylight is only maybe an hour and a half away, and the kid is in no condition to move himself. Young as he is, and weak as he is, sunlight is sure to kill him. If he stays there, he’ll die, if some other predator doesn’t find him first. 

He’s not letting that happen. Not when it’s depressingly apparent the more he sees that the kid doesn’t understand his own dietary or physical needs enough to take care of himself. 

He steps into the coffee shop, and the bored barista looks up from her college textbook with a yawn. Takashi pays for a bottle of juice out of the fridge off to the side, and asks for an extra cup to go with it. She hands over the styrofoam cup with another yawn, not questioning once he stuffs a nice tip into the jar on the counter. 

By the time he gets back to the alley only five minutes have passed, but the kid has barely moved. A few more scrapes in the grime indicate he’d  _ tried  _ to take advantage of Takashi’s absence to make an escape, but he’s too weak to manage. His eyes crack open again at Takashi’s approach, though, and he watches warily as Takashi crouches again in the exact same spot as before.

“Hang on,” he says, still keeping his tone calm and soothing. “I’ll help you in a second, alright?” 

He’s already rolling up his right sleeve, and the kid’s watching with obvious confusion. The confusion turns to fear when Takashi pulls out the knife, and he makes a violent scramble to push himself up again and flee, showing his teeth and snarling again. When that doesn’t work, he collapses on his side once more and squeezes his eyes shut, clearly waiting for the killing stroke. 

“Relax, kid,” Takashi says patiently. “This isn’t for you. I promise, I’m not hurting you.” He digs the blade of the knife into his own arm, very carefully cutting into veins just below the elbow, and then settles the styrofoam cup just underneath. 

The kid’s nostrils flare wide immediately, and his eyes snap open. He watches with open shock as Takashi clenches his right hand into a fist and carefully massages his own arm, encouraging blood to dribble a little faster into the cup. The hunger in his eyes and expression is obvious, but there’s also revulsion in there, which is...unusual. 

Not important at the moment. The first order of business is getting the kid fed, and earning his trust. They can tackle other issues later.

Takashi’s very careful with the bloodletting. He knows how much a human can lose and still be functional, and at what point he’s crossing the line into dangerous territory, and he monitors  _ extremely  _ carefully. This method isn’t exactly the cleanest, but he does the best he can, and when he’s bled as much as he’s willing to, the cup is still decently full. He finishes up, wraps the cut in some of the gauze he always keeps on hand for emergency patch jobs, and rolls down his jacket sleeve again, neatly hiding away the damage. 

When he’s done, he picks up the styrofoam cup, slinks just close enough to get within range, and sets in down directly in front of the kid. Then he backs away as carefully as he’d come, just to make it clear he’s still not interested in hurting the kid in any way. 

“There you go,” he says. “That’s all yours. If you need me to help you sit up, I will. Otherwise, I’ll stay over here, okay?”

The kid stares at him, wide-eyed. 

“I’m serious,” Takashi says, very patiently. “You’re starving, buddy. I’m trying to help. But it would be easier if you could sit up to drink it.”

The kid doesn’t seem too keen on letting Takashi close even now. But it’s clear hunger, and a ready source of food  _ right there,  _ is beginning to override his caution. After a moment he nods shakily, eyes never leaving the cup. “O...okay.”

“Okay, I can come closer to help you sit up?” Takashi clarifies. 

Silence for a moment. Then, “Yes.”

So he does. Very carefully, like he’s closing in on a wounded animal, Takashi eases closer. He gets his hands under the kid’s shoulders and helps haul him upright until the vampire is sitting back against the alley wall. The kid’s hands shake as Takashi hands him the cup. And then he backs away again.

The kid stares down at the cup for all of two seconds before he takes a hesitant sip. Once he does, it’s like something hotwired in his brain takes over, and he’s drinking with a fervor that’s almost alarming. The desperation with which he finishes off even that little cup of blood is depressing, and the way he tears it apart piece by piece after, trying to lick every single drop, every remaining speck, is heartbreaking. In two minutes the contents are completely gone, and the cup is nothing more than little shreds littered around him in the grimy alley dirt. 

Takashi watches and waits, patient, sipping his own juice and ignoring the throb of pain in his arm. He doesn’t try to take the cup away or insist the kid is done, and he lets him rip it apart without argument. The kid is  _ starving.  _ He needs everything he can get. And most importantly, he needs to know Takashi is on his side. It’s the only way he’s going to get through this at all.

When the kid is done, there’s a _little_ more color in his skin, and his hands don’t shake quite so badly. He’s not even remotely out of the water yet, but a source of blood from a healthy individual certainly helps. Eating rats that have been feeding on garbage is akin to eating junk food, for vampires; there’s no substance to it. But even a little healthy human blood will go a long way for a vampire.

“Feel better?” Takashi asks.

The kid doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t snarl, or regard Takashi like he’s a monster, either. Progress. 

He  _ does  _ look unhappy, though, and that look of revulsion is back. Takashi wonders at that. He wonders again if the kid even fully understands what’s happening to him. The thought of the kid dealing with this alone makes him a little sick inside.

But then again, he might not be alone. Takashi glances upwards at the sky, and decides to move on. “Okay, kid. You know I’m not going to hurt you, right?”

The kid watches him warily. But after a long, slow, hesitant moment, he nods.

“You know I’m trying to help you, right?”

After a moment, another hesitant nod. 

“Okay. Thanks for trusting me.” Takashi offers him a reassuring smile, and then continues. “My name is Takashi. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. Do you have something I can call you?”

Silence for a moment. The kid stares at him, seems to be sizing him up, considering. After a moment he whispers, “Keith.”

“Alright, Keith. The sun is going to rise in a little over an hour. Do you have a safe place to go?”

Another moment of hesitation. This time, the kid answers the question with a tired shake of his head. 

“Alright,” he says. “Is there anyone in the community I can take you to?”

Another head shake, this one quicker, more insistent. 

Takashi frowns. “Where have you been staying for daylight hours?”

Keith considers for a moment, before finally answering in the same weak, harsh voice. It still sounds dried out, despite having just consumed a significant amount of liquid. “Wherever I can.”

Not good. The kid had to come from somewhere around here. But then, seeing how weak he’d been earlier, maybe his last daylight hide away was a place where he couldn’t protect himself anymore. Takashi is hesitant to even try to find a hidey-hole around here to stick him back in. 

His heart breaks for the poor kid. Keith doesn’t seem to have  _ anyone.  _ He can’t be more than sixteen. No one should have to deal with this alone.

Takashi considers his options, but he’s sort of limited on time. He finally makes a snap decision.

“Okay, Keith. If you’re okay with it, I’d like to take you someplace safe for the day. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you. But I don’t want to leave you out here on your own either in your condition. It’s not safe. Okay?”

Keith looks wary again at that. His lips peel back to expose the ends of the infamous fangs his species is known for.

“I promise, you’re not going to be a prisoner,” Takashi says. “The moment nightfall comes, you can leave again. I just don’t want you to die out here. This isn’t your fault. You shouldn’t have to worry about dying because you’re hungry or can’t find someplace safe, okay?”

The poor kid seems more confused by that than anything else. “Why?” he rasps, after a moment. “You don’t know me. I’m a...I drink  _ blood.  _ Why are you helping?”

“You look like you could use a hand,” Takashi says honestly. “And I know how to help. So...” he trails off and shrugs.

The kid still seems too stunned to process. Takashi doesn’t blame him. Even with something in his stomach, he’s still starving, hurting, and scared to death.

“It’s going to be okay, Keith,” he promises, patient and reassuring. “Everything is going to be okay. I  _ will  _ help you, if you let me. Alright?”

The kid hesitates for just a moment longer, but then nods. “Okay…”

“Alright. You’re gonna be just fine. Can you stand if I help you?”

Keith tries, but even with Takashi’s assistance, he can’t get his feet under him. A little blood in his system may keep him from being dangerously ill, but it’s not enough yet to give him any kind of strength. He does his best, and Takashi is repeatedly impressed with just how much fight this kid has in him, but he fails.

“Okay,” Takashi reassures patiently, as the kid shudders, exhausted and sickly and so obviously  _ frustrated  _ with his situation. “It’s fine. You’re fine. I’ve got you.” 

So he carries Keith instead, piggy-back. The kid is not happy with it. It’s clear he’s independent as all get-out, and doesn’t enjoy this kind of treatment, or having to rely on a stranger. Takashi just reassures him over and over again that it’s fine, that this isn’t a problem, and things will be okay. 

Thankfully, there’s not a lot of pedestrian traffic just yet at this hour. The commuters will be out in force soon, but for now there’s no one out to question what looks, for all intents and purposes, like the kidnapping of a minor at the hour of so-late-it’s-early. Small favors.

He finally gets Keith to the car and settles him into the back seat, letting the kid stretch out as comfortably as possible. He shrugs out of his jacket, and after removing half a dozen dangerous weapons from it, tosses it gently over Keith’s shivering form. The kid almost immediately burrows into it, dragging part of it over his head to hide his eyes, and Takashi frowns at that. It’s still forty-five minutes to sunrise, but for something as light-sensitive as a vampire, now might already be too close for comfort. 

“It’ll be fine, buddy,” he reassures for the hundredth time, as he settles into the driver’s seat. “We’re going somewhere safe. Promise.”

The early morning commuters are just starting to head out on the roads, and traffic is heavier than Takashi would like for five in the morning. He heads for his own apartment regardless, taking any shortcut he can think of to make it back home before the sun comes. 

Allura’s penthouse would probably be safer, but Takashi had barely gotten Keith to trust him as it was, and that trust is still enormously fragile. The kid’s vulnerable, scared, and suspicious. He doesn’t want to imagine how Keith would react if he was taken to a complex with a dozen or more security guards, cryptids, ex-military, and a hundred talking mice, but he can reasonably predict it would be ‘not good.’ He’d seen how viciously Keith had shaken his head, when Takashi had offered to take him to someone in the community. 

So for now, Takashi’s place. It’s closer anyway, and they’re on a time limit.

He makes it home in record time. By now, the sky is more dark blue than black, and he can see a faint haze of light on the horizon if he looks hard enough. Keith doesn’t answer when he tells them they’ve arrived, and when he cracks open the back door and checks, the kid’s asleep. Or probably more like unconscious, what with the closeness of the day. As weak and emaciated as he is, the daylight hours and the sun would probably have a far stronger effect on him than usual. 

“Don’t worry, Keith,” he says, as he lifts the kid out of the backseat as gently as possible. “Almost here. You’re gonna be fine.”

Keith doesn’t answer. Takashi’s not even certain if he can hear or understand. Do vampires dream in these states? Do they have any consciousness or awareness at all? He has no idea. Nor is it important at the moment. He adjusts his jacket carefully over the kid’s head and torso again, just to be safe, and heads up to his apartment.

By some miracle, nobody is active in the building yet as he heads upstairs to his rooms. It lets him once again neatly circumvent explaining what  _ definitely  _ looks like kidnapping. He manages to balance Keith with one arm while he gets through his multiple locks into the apartment itself—it’s depressingly easy, with how light the kid currently is. 

Once safely inside, he kicks the door closed behind himself, and hastily settles Keith on the couch. The kid doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle at being moved. Takashi leaves his jacket over the kid’s exposed face and hands while he heads to the spare bedroom to prepare it.

Three years ago he’d chosen this apartment for its defensiveness, but also because it had come fully furnished. It had, among other things, another bed in the spare bedroom. Takashi hasn’t had a single guest stay in the three years he’s lived here; he’s too paranoid about being found by the Covenant to risk having anyone see the place. Allura and Coran know about his apartment and have been here a few times to drop him off after missions that left him exhausted or injured, but that’s the extent of it.

So the spare bedroom has usually functioned as storage for his extra weapons, reagents, and other necessities for his cryptid community work. He’s always meant to get rid of the bed at some point, since it took up too much space. He’s never quite gotten around to it, with how busy he’s been. Now he’s glad he hasn’t. 

He moves quickly, clearing the assorted blades he’d spread out for cleaning off the blankets and stashing them back in the living room. Spare bins for reagents, poisons, antidotes, herbs, and the like go next. He’s not certain if any of them could make Keith sick, but he doesn’t want to poison the kid by accident until he knows for certain. He finds the thickest, darkest spare blanket he can and fastens it over the window, blocking out as much potential sunlight as possible. 

The result is a dark little cave in his apartment, where Keith should be able to rest safely and comfortably through the day. 

Satisfied, Takashi collects the kid from the couch. He’s just in time, as the first rays of sunlight are beginning to slip through the drawn drapes of the living room windows into the apartment. Takashi carries Keith away from the invasive sunlight and into the darker room, settles him on the bed, and tosses a lighter blanket over him. 

“Safe,” Takashi breathes, with a sigh of relief. 

It’s still not over by a long shot, and there’s a lot left to tackle regarding this kid. But Keith will probably be all but dead to the world until dusk tonight, so for now he has at least a few hours to act. 

And his first order of business is  _ sleep.  _ He’s been quite literally up all night, on top of his job yesterday, and by now he’s exhausted. He wearily closes the spare bedroom door, leaving it open just a crack—just to reinforce Keith isn’t trapped, even though the kid would currently have no conscious understanding of that one way or another. 

He pauses only long enough to pull out a real first aid kit and bandage his self-inflicted blood-letting wound. He’d been careful with how he’d cut himself, and the wound looks clean and isn’t infected. He cares for it anyway, just to be safe, and determines to monitor his health for the next day or so. Even if he had taken precautions, blood loss is no joke, and he doesn’t want to have inadvertently sabotaged himself. 

But for now everything is fine. He changes into comfortable clothes and finally,  _ finally,  _ lets himself collapse on his bed for a few hours of well earned rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who guessed Keith was next up, good job. To the few of you who guessed _vampire_ Keith, you nailed it :)


	5. Venandi sapiens: Part Two

“We weren’t friends, although we might be eventually, but there are some burdens no one should be required to carry alone.”  
—Antimony Price, _That Ain’t Witchcraft_

**_Back in the impressively secure apartment in Garrison City, but this time with a vampire in the guest room_ **

His alarm wakes him at ten thirty.

Takashi is loath to get up at all. He’s only had maybe four and a half hours of sleep. But he has classes to teach in the afternoon, and a lot of work to get done before that. So he drags himself out of bed, powered by sheer force of will. 

He checks on his unexpected guest first thing. The spare bedroom is still nice and dark, thanks to the blanket over the window. Keith hasn’t moved even a fraction of an inch from the position Takashi had laid him down in. He sleeps almost literally like the dead, to the point that it’s eerie. Due to the drastically slowed respiratory system of vampires, the kid is only breathing about once a minute, which means he’s alarmingly silent and frighteningly still. Takashi can definitely see how people back in the day might have confused them for being truly deceased.

But Keith is definitely still alive, and as far as Takashi can tell, as well off as he can be while still starving. He should be fine here until nightfall.

 _But I need to get him something to eat,_ Takashi decides. _I can’t give him any more of my blood without risking health problems, myself._ Last night had been something of an emergency, but it definitely can’t be the norm. 

There are ways to get around that, at least. It will be one of his errands for today. 

He checks the blood-letting wound again, but it looks like it’s healing nicely enough. He probably won’t even bother Allura about it. She could heal it easily, he’s sure, but healing tends to drain her of energy, and sometimes it causes her feathers to fall out. He’d rather not bother her unless it’s serious. 

There is something else she can help him with, though, so he texts her with his request. _“Do you have any connections with CPS? Or maybe missing persons?”_

Her answer comes quickly. _“I do. Is this for a mission?”_

_“Sort of. Can you see if a kid named Keith went missing recently? Anything about him?”_

_“Last name?”_

_“Not sure. Only got his first. I think it would have been in the past year or so.”_

The next response is slower in coming. _“Cryptid?”_

Now it’s Takashi’s turn to hesitate. _“Yes, but he’ll be in human channels.”_ There were other connections and networks for cryptids, who had their own way of communicating with each other on things they didn’t want humans to see. 

Takashi doubts Keith would be in that network, though. Not with the way he’d been acting last night.

_“I’ll ask, but I don’t know how much I’ll get. Urgent?”_

_“Very. Thank you.”_

_“I’ll contact them immediately. I’ll want an explanation for this later, though.”_

_“I promise I’ll explain when I can.”_

She doesn’t answer, but Takashi trusts her to handle that discreetly. 

His next order of business is ensuring he can feed a starving vampire. For obvious reasons, his dietary options for Keith are limited. Animal blood would be easier to obtain from a butcher, but Keith is malnourished and young enough that he’s probably still growing. He’ll need human blood at the very least to recover, and it would probably be healthier for him to keep feeding on it after, at least until he’s in his mid twenties. 

Fortunately, there are ways to get access to human blood that don’t involve actually killing humans. Modern technology and the advent of blood drives, blood banks, and ways to safely store human blood for medical usage mean people these days are willingly giving away their liquid insides for a good cause. In this case, the good cause is going to be feeding a starving teenage vampire. 

The hard part is having a resource to _get_ those materials. Fortunately, Takashi knows a guy.

The docks are as cliche a place as possible for a semi-illegal under the table trading business to be set up, but it’s cliche for a reason. With hundreds of shipments in and out every day, it’s easy to move goods and get one’s hands on items that they maybe shouldn’t. It’s where Takashi’s contact operates out of, so he drives down to meet him there. At this time of day, he’ll _definitely_ be there.

The docks are full of activity by the time Takashi arrives, but it’s mostly dockworkers streaming out for a lunch break. That’s perfect, since there will be less witnesses around. He heads to a set of dockhouses where his contact has a legitimate shipping business, as well as a...less legitimate one. 

It’s not long before he notices the small shadow soaring over him from building to building, and glances up to spot a creature staring down at him. The uninformed might think they were looking at a raven’s head. The uninformed would be wrong. A raven had no business sporting a pair of tall, catlike ears, or the hindquarters of a fluffy maine coon. 

“Hey, Beezer,” Takashi greets, waving at the creature. “Want to run ahead and tell Rolo I’m coming? And also not to try climbing out the window this time?”

The church griffin squawks at him once, and promptly begins preening its wings, with all the energy of a cat feigning disinterest. Lesser griffins somehow manage to combine all the most obnoxious characteristics of both cats and birds into one package, and they’re too smart for their own good. Takashi’s not really sure how any of them make good pets. But some people love them, for some inexplicable reason. 

Takashi rolls his eyes and continues along towards the office. Beezer, sensing his indifference is being ignored, squawks indignantly, swoops down to buzz Takashi’s head, and darts ahead to the office in question. Takashi scowls a little as he brushes his now messy bangs back into place.

By the time he makes it to the office, Rolo is waiting for him at the desk. Beezer flops out comfortably over the papers, making odd cooing noises as Rolo pets him. “Hey, Shirogane,” he drawls. “What can I do for you today?”

“I need to get a few things,” Takashi says. “And I’ve told you a hundred times, it’s Takashi.” 

“Uh-huh,” Rolo says. “Right. My bad.” Takashi could almost believe he’s genuinely apologetic. He’s never heard anyone affect both casual laziness and a weird sort of friendly charm all in one quite the way Rolo does, but it works. He’s a skilled businessman, excellent at putting people at ease. 

He’s also a masterful smuggler, thief and con-artist, which is the actual reason Takashi is here.

Rolo is human, but a human who’s been a cryptid sympathizer for years. He and his partner in crime, a succubus named Nyma, have had a little business on the side for quite some time now. They make more than a little extra cash finding and selling foods, spell components, charms, and a dozen other cryptid-specific items that would be questionable or outright illegal in human markets. 

Rolo handles the business end of things, holding down the fort in human territory. He has a silver tongue that could talk him out of almost any predicament, and is a little too good at getting five-finger discounts. Nyma, with her succubus-granted persuasive telepathic abilities and pheromones that could bedazzle anyone attracted to women, could convince most men to hand over almost anything they were interested in stealing. If you needed something fast, if your choice in meals was questionable, if you wanted information, you could almost certainly get it from Rolo and Nyma. 

For a price, of course. A hefty one.

That was actually how Takashi had first caught them, almost two years ago now. After a mission Allura had given him, he’d recovered a number of expensive artifacts with residual magics. Rolo and Nyma had their eyes on the same prize, and had managed to steal one of the artifacts, a little sapphire lion statue, while Takashi had been preoccupied. They had _not_ anticipated Takashi to retaliate so quickly, which was when they’d all learned he was immune to most of Nyma’s charms. 

It had been an eye-opening day for everyone involved, really.

But although Takashi had been able to subdue them easily and recover the stolen artifact, he hadn’t killed them. They were thieves, but they knew how to stay under the radar, and not catch Covenant attention. More importantly, Takashi had known even then that their cryptid black market connections could prove invaluable.

They had eventually worked out a truce of sorts. Takashi doesn’t turn them in, and lets them keep operating as they always have. In return, he gets information out of them for free when pursuing leads, and access to purchase items under the table when he needs them. 

“So what can I get for you today, Takashi?” Rolo asks, with the same laconic attitude. “Unicorn water? Bezoars? Anti-charms? Maybe a little liquid mercury?”

“Blood,” Takashi says firmly, in no mood for Rolo’s upselling today. “And I need it today.”

Rolo raises an eyebrow at that. “Yeah? What kind?”

“Human.”

Both brows raise at that. “Planning on getting hurt sometime soon, Shi—Takashi? Stocking up for transfusions?”

“It’s not for me,” Takashi says. 

“Planning on hurting someone _else_ soon?” Rolo tosses out, unfazed. “Are _they_ gonna need transfusions?” 

“It’s not for an injury,” Takashi says, crossing his arms. “Can you get it or not?”

Rolo raises his hands placatingly. “Easy, there. I get it. None of my business. Works for me. Need any specific type? A, B, AB, O, positive, negative?”

“No preference, but nothing rare.” Takashi needs to make sure Keith is fed, but that doesn’t mean he needs to take an already difficult to obtain blood type from somebody who might desperately need a transfusion later. “Murder free,” he adds, warningly.

Rolo actually looks hurt at that. Takashi doesn’t even think it’s completely feigned. “My stock is _always_ murder-free, you know that.”

Takashi does, actually. It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t mind dealing with Rolo and Nyma. They might be underhanded thieves, and they will charm, sneak, seduce, trick, and talk their way into obtaining most of their merchandise. But they don’t kill. 

“Just making sure,” Takashi says. “I’ll need at least twelve pints to start. Can you have it before three?”

“I can have it in an hour, but I need to make a call,” Rolo says, smiling. “Nyma will pick it up for you. But a rush delivery is gonna cost you extra.”

“Of course it will,” Takashi says. “Let’s hear the price.”

Rolo names it. It’s steep, as promised, and Rolo is a sharp haggler. Takashi manages to bring it down a little, mostly to keep Rolo on his toes, but he’s not really worried about the money. He’d stolen a _lot_ from the Covenant when he’d run, and has more than enough to cover the bill. Keith’s life is on the line. It’s a price worth paying.

“Go get yourself some lunch and come back in an hour,” Rolo drawls, once Takashi hands over half the cash—a down payment of sorts, until he has the goods. He looks smugly satisfied, like he always does after a good sale. “We’ll have the merch for you by then.”

“Will do,” Takashi says, as he heads out the door. Beezer squawks at him on his way out, and Rolo laughs.

There’s not much else for him to do at the moment, and now that he thinks about it, he is starving. So he takes Rolo’s advice and heads to a local sub shop to grab something to eat. 

While he’s there, he gets a text from Allura. _“Sent you all the information my contact can find. Hope it helps. Still require explanation.”_

Intrigued, he flips over to his email app while he eats. A new submission from Allura titled only ‘request’ contains everything that could possibly be found about Keith. There’s only one match with any data in the past year, and it’s more than Takashi had expected, but still not all that much.

_Name: Keith Kogane_

_Age: 16_

_Birthdate: October 23rd, 2003_

_Mother: Unknown_

_Father: Deceased, Death Date April 8th, 2008_

_Known living relatives: N/A_

_Reported missing 8 months ago_

The attached photograph of a surly-looking ten year old is definitely the same kid he’d found last night in the alley. He’s got darker eyes here—the red pigmentation wouldn’t have come out at this age. No fangs either—he’s young enough to still be sporting his baby teeth. But that’s still the same face, the same dark hair, the same fierce look in his eyes.

Takashi frowns at the statistics, and the frown deepens as he skims through the brief paragraphs of history that Allura’s contact had been able to find. Entered into the foster system at five years of age, after his father’s death and without evidence of known living relatives. Bounced around multiple homes over the next ten and a half years. Known anger issues and had a tendency to start fights and disobey orders. Didn’t deal well with authority. Despite that, Allura’s contact assessed that by all reports, most foster families he’d been with had done their best to help and had genuinely wanted him. Keith had just never fit in properly, frequently pushed others away, and never fully trusted anyone. 

That was a fairly textbook case of a parentless kid dealing with grief and trauma, so it’s not a surprise that nobody noticed anything off. For Takashi, it also seems pretty clearly the result of a cryptid living in a human environment and struggling to fit in, even if he never understood why. 

He’d disappeared eight months ago, from a town two states away. No indication of kidnapping or foul play. His last foster family feared he’d run away, and his track record would support that. 

Based on his age and his species, it’s possible he’d also started growing into his more inhuman characteristics around that time. Takashi would bet his entire fortune on that being the catalyst for the kid bolting. If he’d only been five when he’d been put into foster care, there’s hardly any chance he would remember that his parents hadn’t been human, or that he’d understand what was happening to him. He’d probably been terrified, and scared to death of anyone finding out. 

Takashi closes his email app with a frustrated sigh. This kid needs _help._ Takashi just hopes he can get through to him before it’s too late.

 _First things first,_ he reminds himself. _Step one: get him healthy. You’re already working on that._

He’s surprised to find that reviewing Keith’s data had killed plenty of time, and his hour has already passed. So he heads back to the docks and Rolo’s office. Unsurprisingly, Nyma’s there this time, currently cuddling the now affectionate Beezer as he coos in her arms. 

“Shirogane,” she greets, nodding to him. She doesn’t try to turn on the charm with him anymore—not that she would have to with most men to begin with. She could smell like day old garbage and dress in a potato sack, and her succubus pheromones would still drive any person attracted to women wild with love bordering on lust. They’d remember her for days afterwards as the most attractive woman they’d ever seen, too. She’d admitted that on some days it was extraordinarily annoying. 

“Nyma,” he greets, nodding back. “And it’s Takashi.”

“Right, right,” she says. “I always forget. Y’know, that whole murderer family thing.”

That stings—it always does—but Nyma has a perfectly valid reason for being cautious. Her species has been marked down as ‘demons’ for generations, and the Covenant love to hunt them for ‘inducing sinful, wicked ways.’ Granted, she’s not exactly _helping_ her own stereotype, since she uses her abilities to steal most things she wants, but still.

He doesn’t comment on that though, and instead merely raises an eyebrow, asking bluntly, “Do you want my money or not?”

“Of course we want your money,” Rolo says, placating. “Nyma’s just jokin’ around. We got your order, just like you wanted.”

Nyma nods in agreement, kicking the cooler next to her gently. “There you go. Twelve packs. A, B, and O, all positive, all relatively common. No murder, won’t be missed.” 

Takashi doesn’t ask where they got it. As long as they didn’t steal it from a hospital or clinic critically low on blood, or directly from a human being, he doesn’t want to know. He kneels down to inspect the contents of the cooler, ignoring Beezer’s indignant caw as Nyma stops petting him to focus on the transaction.

“All here,” Takashi agrees, counting the packs. Four of each blood type. He’s not sure if antigens have any effect on vampire health, but it’s probably best to have the variety, just to be safe. 

“If you’re satisfied with the inspection, then we’ll need the remaining fifty percent…” Rolo drawls. He sounds lazy, but he’s focused with laser intensity on Takashi.

“Right, right.” Takashi dutifully hands over the remainder of the cash, and collects his cooler full of human blood. He wishes he’d done weirder things in the past than this, but it can’t even crack his top ten.

As he hefts up the cooler though, he considers. “Keep an open line on these,” he says finally. “I’m not sure if I’ll need more, or how much.” He knows the theory behind vampire health and biology, between rigorous studies of how to kill them with the Covenant, and supplemental information from Allura’s archives. But he’s yet to actually have spoken to a vampire first hand, or know one in the community. He knows vampires don’t consume much blood when healthy, but he doesn’t know how much it’ll take to even get Keith back on his feet. Better to be prepared.

Rolo merely raises an eyebrow, then shakes his head. “Y’know what? I don’t want to know where it’s going.”

Nyma grins. “I can definitely get you more. I’ve got an in now. Just say when, and be sure to have another roll of cash ready to go.” 

Beezer caws indignantly, and paws at Nyma’s arm, demanding her attention again. She smiles and goes back to petting him. He coos with pleasure, then gives Takashi a baleful look, as if to say, _move along, then._

Takashi rolls his eyes. “That’s my cue to go. Stay out of trouble, you three.”

“Always do!” Rolo calls after him, grinning.

Getting the blood home isn’t difficult. The cooler looks like the sort of thing he might take to a picnic, if he was a normal human being. Nobody looks twice at him as he drives it back home and carts it up to his apartment. He stows the twelve blood packs carefully away in his fridge, next to a depressing lack of groceries.

 _Need to remember to go food shopping,_ he thinks, idly. Not that he does all that much cooking for himself. Most of it burns. Cooking had never been one of those skills the Covenant had deemed essential, and it wasn’t as easy for him to pick up as target practice or stealth kills.

A quick check in on his unexpected guest shows that Keith is still dead to the world, almost literally. He _still_ hasn’t moved from the exact same position Takashi had first set him down in. It’s frankly a little creepy. 

A glance at the clock tells him he won’t be able to stick around much longer, though. He’s got classes to teach soon—one mid-afternoon for many of his college patrons, and an after-school one for the younger kids. His evening slots are actually taken too, tonight, which means he won’t be back when Keith is most likely going to wake. 

It’s not ideal, but he can’t dodge around his other responsibilities. Instead, he grabs a pad of paper and pen, and leaves a note on the pillow next to Keith’s head, where he’ll see it the moment he wakes up. _“Hey, Keith. I had to go to work, but you’re welcome to stay here if you want a place to be safe. Just be careful about touching anything in the boxes in the living room, some of it could hurt you. If you don’t want to stay, you’re not a prisoner and you’re free to leave, but please lock the door behind you. Either way there’s packs of blood in the fridge, help yourself. Towels in the hall closet if you want a shower. I’ll be back by 10:30PM. -Takashi.”_

His training is not exactly thrilled with the prospect of leaving a virtual unknown behind in his home—the home he’d spent three years hiding from the world, the home he’s been paranoid about showing anyone. His instincts say otherwise. The kid needs a safe place and someone he can trust, and that starts by showing him he can be trusted in return. 

So he packs up his things, locks the door behind him, and heads out to work.

Classes go well, at least. There’s a weird sort of dichotomy in teaching self defense. He’s always proud every time one of his students masters a technique, and at the same time he hopes they never have to use it. But at least they feel safer, and more in control, every time they leave their classes with ‘Ryou Tanaka.’

His evening classes with the cryptid community as Takashi Shirogane are much smaller, but thankfully today, no less successful. These are less about teaching specific martial arts or physical defense moves, and more about teaching other cryptids how the Covenant thinks. He doesn’t have many students here yet, but the four that come to learn from him tonight are still four more than he’s had in the past, and they’re cautiously trusting of him. It’s a start.

Still, he can’t deny that he’s relieved when he wishes the last of them a safe trip home around ten at night, and can finally close up the studio. He’s remained dutifully focused on his work, but Keith’s been at the back of his mind all night. The kid’s probably been up for a couple hours now, and Takashi can’t help but fret over him. Did he see the note? Did he eat something? Was he even still there, or had he bolted the moment he’d regained consciousness? 

He’s cautiously optimistic as he unlocks his apartment door and lets himself in, snapping on the kitchen lights. “Keith? You here, bud?”

Silence. Takashi sets his bag down on one of the kitchen chairs, and pokes his head into the guest bedroom. It’s extremely dark, but he can still make out the now empty bed, and the light blanket he’d tossed over the kid earlier, discarded in a crumpled heap on the side.

He frowns. He doesn’t hear the shower running, and the bathroom door is open, so the kid’s not in there. He heads back to the kitchen, and checks the fridge, counting the blood packs. All twelve are there, unopened. 

His frown grows deeper, and disappointment pangs in his chest. He can’t say he’s surprised, exactly. The kid had been scared to death, last night, and his trust of Takashi had been a fragile thing. Takashi _had_ promised him he could leave, and that he wasn’t a prisoner. If the kid didn’t want his help, he couldn’t make Keith take it. 

He can’t say he’s surprised, but he really wishes he could have made a difference for Keith anyway. The poor kid needed help. Takashi doesn’t like the thought of him being back out on the streets, starving. 

He sighs, and shuts the fridge door. “What am I going to do with all this extra blood, then?” he mutters out loud.

“You’re a Shirogane.”

Takashi’s already whirled in place, police baton half drawn, before he realizes it’s Keith. He immediately aborts the effort, but not before Keith recoils several steps, baring his fangs with a startled snarl and glancing at the door.

“Woah,” Takashi says immediately, disappearing the baton back into one of his pockets and raising his hands in a placating ‘I’m unarmed’ gesture. “Sorry, easy there. You startled me. You, uh...probably shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

For that matter, how _had_ Keith snuck up on him? He’s usually got better awareness of his surroundings than this, and the kid is obviously weak. Then again, preternatural stillness, nocturnal vision, and only having to breathe once a minute probably go a long way towards making Keith hard to see or hear in a good shadowy corner, even when he is sick. It was one of the reasons vampires had such a fearsome reputation as night hunters to begin with.

Keith doesn’t answer. He glances uneasily at the door again, then back to Takashi. Takashi can all but see the gears whirring in his head, as he tries to calculate if he can make it to the door before he’s killed.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Keith,” Takashi reiterates again. “I’m trying to help. I promise.”

“You’re a _Shirogane,”_ Keith repeats, disbelieving. “I _saw_ your stuff around here. Don’t try to deny it.”

It hurts a little, to hear Keith bite his name out like a curse word. Takashi’s used to most cryptids using his name that way, but this feels different. He’s really trying to forge a connection with this kid—Keith _needs_ one with somebody, if he’s going to survive. His name getting in the way is a frustrating roadblock that he can’t do anything about. 

But he keeps his expression as calm as possible for Keith’s benefit as he responds, “And?”

“They’re...they’re murderers,” Keith says, after a moment. “For people who aren’t human. People like _me._ Everyone who’s not human knows that.” 

“You’re right,” Takashi says quietly. “That’s why I left.” 

Keith’s uneasiness spikes at the admission, but deflates into obvious confusion when Takashi finishes. “I...what?”

“I’d be happy to explain,” Takashi says. “But how about we sit down?” Keith’s managing to stand on his own currently, but Takashi doesn’t miss the way his whole body is trembling with the effort of staying upright. The kid needs to conserve his strength. 

And speaking of...“And you should eat,” he adds, gesturing over his shoulder to the fridge behind him. “I got you some blood today. Did you see my note?”

“I...yes.” Keith swallows. Takashi can see the blatant hunger in his eyes. “But you…you’re a _Shirogane._ Maybe you drugged them.”

Takashi’s heart goes out to the poor kid. He wonders what Keith’s been through, to be so blatantly suspicious to begin with. He can imagine his family’s reputation isn’t helping.

“Keith,” he says, slowly and patiently, “If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it last night in the alley, or any time in the past fourteen hours that you’ve been passed out on my guest bed. The same goes for anything else you might have heard regarding the Covenant ‘studying test subjects.’ I ran away from them. I’m not interested in hurting you. I _promise.”_

It’s a blunt form of reassurance, but one that Keith seems to resonate with. The kid looks more comfortable now that he’s been reminded that he could have been killed at any point in the past fifteen hours and wasn’t, than when Takashi was repeating soothing ‘it’s okays’ and ‘you’re gonna be fines.’ 

It’s a little sad. But Takashi will work with whatever it takes for Keith to understand he’s _not_ an enemy here.

“Nothing’s been tampered with, you can check the seals on the packs and open them yourself if you want,” Takashi continues, as he opens the fridge door to display the blood to the hungry vampire. “Do you have a preference on type?”

Keith blinks, licks his lips, and stares at the collection of blood. “Um...I don’t…I don’t know.”

“Well, then there’s no time like the present to learn,” Takashi says, as he removes the nearest pack—A positive—from the fridge and places it on the kitchen table. He gives it a gentle push, and it slides across the table towards the other end, Keith’s side.

For a moment, Keith just stares at it. Takashi can see that he’s desperate to eat, in the way his whole body trembles with the stress of just standing, and in the way his fingers twitch, like he wants to grab for it. But he doesn’t move. And that same look of revulsion is back, from last night.

“Kid—you okay?” Takashi asks, voice gentle. 

Keith doesn’t answer.

“You can have it in a bowl or a cup, if you want,” Takashi offers lightly. “They’re in those cabinets there. You can nuke it in the microwave too, if you prefer it warm.”

“And that’s not going to creep you out?” Keith finally asks. He manages to tear his eyes away from the pack on the table. “Me just...drinking _blood_ in front of you?”

“If I was creeped out by it, I wouldn’t have let you drink mine,” Takashi points out calmly, gesturing to his right arm, and the bandage hidden beneath his sleeve. “Trust me, Keith. I’ve seen and done a _lot_ weirder.” 

The look of revulsion grows even stronger, if possible, and Keith drops his gaze to stare at the floor. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Hey. Bud. Look at me.” Keith looks up slowly, and Takashi says firmly, “You don’t have anything to feel bad about here, okay? I willingly helped you out, because you needed it.”

Keith doesn’t look like he believes it.

“Keith...you understand what you are, right?” Takashi asks slowly. 

Keith nods after a moment. “Vampire.”

“Right,” Takashi says. “So you should understand that drinking blood is a perfectly normal part of your survival, and you don’t have to feel bad about it, okay? But you _do_ need to eat, buddy. You’re starving. It’s going to take a lot of feedings before you’re healthy again. I promise it’s not going to weird me out, I just want you to feel better. Got it?”

Keith swallows. He doesn’t look completely reassured, and Takashi is sure there’s a story there to get into. Whatever it is, he’s not going to push the kid on it just yet. 

But Keith’s not a quitter. After a moment he takes a deep breath, and says, “Can I...you said I could warm it up?”

“Sure,” Takashi says, and produces a soup mug from one of the cabinets. “Do you want to do it?”

“I, um...I don’t know how to—”

“No problem,” Takashi says easily. “You sit down. I’ll take care of it, as long as you’re comfortable with me touching your breakfast.” 

Keith shakes his head. The kid seems woefully out of his element, confused, miserable, embarrassed, and tired. If he’s only been getting his dinner from alleys since his inhuman traits started coming in, that’s not surprising.

Takashi doesn’t mind helping, though. He empties the blood into the soup mug, and nukes it until it’s as near as he can get it to ‘still warm body’ temperature. Behind him, the kid has finally deigned to sit at the end of the table. He’s still perched on the edge of one of the chairs, like he’s ready to bolt at any moment, but Takashi’s just glad he’s not struggling to stand on shaking legs anymore. 

The scent of iron is cloying, but Takashi’s had a depressing amount of practice ignoring it. He places the warm mug gently in front of Keith, who’s all but drooling at the scent, even while he’s clearly uneasy. 

“Go ahead and eat up,” Takashi says patiently. “And I’ll explain what I meant earlier, about me leaving.”

So he does. He explains that a chance encounter with a cryptid years ago had convinced him not everyone in that community was evil. He goes into how that had changed his mind, how he’d run. How he’d come to America seeking to just hide. How he’d met Allura, and decided he wanted to make a difference instead. How he now taught people how to protect themselves, and protected them when they couldn’t, be they cryptid or human. 

He’s not sure Keith hears much at first. Like last night, the kid is obsessed with his meal at first, draining the mug depressingly quickly and swiping the remaining drops out with his fingers. By the time he’s done, only the lingering scent of blood is left to indicate there was anything in the bowl at all. 

Takashi dutifully pretends not to notice as the kid devours his breakfast ravenously, and then seems almost ashamed after. But Keith does pay closer attention to the later parts of the story, and Takashi is relieved to find his words are a suitable distraction for the kid.

“Feel better?” he asks, once he winds down.

“A little.” A pause. “It feels weird to be full. It’s...been a while.”

“I’ll bet,” Takashi says, carefully keeping his voice agreeable and not pitying. “Rats and mice probably don’t cut it.” 

Keith _hmms_ softly in acknowledgement, and then fidgets for a moment. “What now?” he finally asks. Cautious. Uneasy.

Takashi merely raises an eyebrow at that. “That’s up to you,” he says patiently. “Like I said...I’m not going to kill you, or hold you prisoner. If you have somewhere you need to be, or you have family or friends who can help you, feel free to go. You can take the rest of the blood with you, too. I certainly can’t use it.”

Keith doesn’t say anything to that. He just stares at the bowl in front of him, and crosses his arms over his chest, digging fingers into the sleeves of his fraying red jacket.

Takashi sighs. He’d thought as much, but he’d been hoping that maybe there was still somebody out there for Keith that he hadn’t been able to dig up with Allura’s contacts. “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”

Keith’s fingers dig even more deeply into his jacket. His voice is so soft it’s almost a whisper. “No.”

Takashi’s expression softens. “Keith...you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But I’m here to listen if you do.”

Keith’s still staring at the table, and he swallows. “I mean. I sort of owe it to tell you now, right?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Takashi says firmly. “It’s completely up to you.”

Keith hesitates.

But something in the kid must want to come clean. To explain his situation to somebody who’s willing to listen and who understands what he’s dealing with. Takashi is probably the first person Keith’s ever encountered who fits into both categories. The kid swallows again, but after a moment, he nods. 

“I, um...I didn’t know my mom. And my dad...he died when I was little. He was an EMT…he liked helping people. But something happened at one of the calls, and…” He shrugs. 

“I’m sorry that happened,” Takashi says quietly.

Keith shrugs a little uncomfortably. “It’s okay. I don’t really remember him much.” 

He stares at the table in front of him. “After dad died, I got put in the system. Foster homes and stuff. And...I mean. I guess they were nice. They tried. They didn’t, y’know, beat me up or treat me bad, like you see in movies. But I still hated it. And...well, they all knew it.” 

He scowls at the table, an expression that shows the tips of his fangs, even if he doesn’t seem to realize it. “I’m a screw-up,” he tells Takashi bluntly. “A ‘discipline case.’ Got into fights and pissed off most of the foster homes. People get tired of dealing with me after a while.”

There’s a note of challenge in his voice, as he glances up at Takashi at the end. Takashi can all but see the thoughts racing through the kid’s red eyes. _You won’t stick around for very long either_ and _you may as well just give up now_ and _I’m going to screw something up eventually_ and very, very deep down, a cautious, wary, hesitant hope. 

He seems unsure about continuing, so Takashi prompts him gently. “That doesn’t sound great. But that’s not the reason you’re on the streets, is it?”

Keith swallows, suddenly nervous. “I...no. No, I...I could’ve put up with that. I mean, I didn’t like it, but like I said...most of those homes were okay. But…maybe nine months ago...” 

He falls silent again, and his fingers dig into his red jacket once more.

Takashi already knows where this is headed. “That’s when your inhuman traits started coming in, huh?”

Keith hesitates for a moment, but then nods slowly. 

“Started with my teeth. Some of them were loose and fell out. I just got in a fight with another kid at school who was talking shit about my mom, so I figured he just hit me hard. But then _these_ started growing in.” He runs his tongue over one of the fangs, and shudders. 

“Then other weird things. It took me a while to realize I didn’t need to breathe as much as I used to. My heart slowed down. And I got faster and stronger. I’ve always been pretty fast, but this was...this was _way_ too fast. And I crushed one of the doorknobs at the foster home I was at.” He shudders again. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t even angry, I was trying _not_ to screw it up with my foster family this time, but...and then…” 

He stops speaking, but the way he eyes the soup mug in front of him makes it clear what the next stage of development was.

“Your diet changed,” Takashi supplies gently. 

Keith swallows. He stares down at his lap now; he won’t even look near Takashi. “I couldn’t eat the stuff I used to. I’d throw it up. I was thirsty all the time but water didn’t help, and I’d throw up almost anything else. I thought I was sick, but with all the other stuff happening, I was scared to tell my foster parents about it. 

“Then one of the other foster kids cut his hand on an exacto knife doing an art project and I could smell it perfectly and it was like...like it used to be when you could smell cookies baking in the oven, or passed a pizza place, or something.” He shudders. “It smelled _good.”_

Takashi gives him a sympathetic look. “And I’m guessing you didn’t know anything about the cryptid world?”

Keith shakes his head. “No. I tried googling it. I found stuff about vampires, but I didn’t...I didn’t want to be that. I _don’t_ want to be that. And I couldn’t hide it from my foster family forever. They noticed I wasn’t eating, and I started skipping school because it hurt to go out during the day and I’d get sleepy, so they were already mad. They thought I was being a ‘discipline case’ again. And if they figured out what I was…” He shudders. 

“I was _trying_ this time,” he finishes unhappily, almost whispering. “I really was. But I couldn’t stay. Not as a blood-sucking monster. So I ran.”

“Hey,” Takashi says, tone gentle. “None of this is your fault, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I don’t know what I did at _all,”_ Keith says. The poor kid looks so miserable and confused that Takashi wants to give him a pat on the back or a reassuring hug or _something,_ but it’s way too early for that. He’s lucky Keith is even telling him these things. “I didn’t get bitten or die or anything, or do that blood swap thing, or...I don’t know, but I didn’t want _this._ I don’t want to be this. I don’t want to be a killer. Or eat _people.”_

“Okay,” Takashi says, holding up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. Toss anything you learned about vampires from the internet or media out the window. Most of it’s garbage. We’ll start from square one, okay?”

Keith’s miserable stare fills with confusion. “What?”

“Keith, here’s the thing,” Takashi says. “Vampires ‘turning’ is completely bogus. Vampires are born, just like any other mammal. The fact of the matter is, at least one of your parents was a vampire. Possibly both. I’m not actually sure if vampires are cross-fertile with humans, and frankly it’s a little rude to ask in casual conversation.”

Keith’s confused stare changes to one of teenage revulsion at the topic. Takashi snorts. “Sorry. Nobody wants to think about their parents like that, no matter the species. Point is, you were never human and you never ‘turned.’ You’ve always been at least part vampire, bud. And that’s completely okay.”

“I never ate blood before!” 

“Vampires use natural mimicry to protect their young,” Takashi says. “That’s where the ‘turning’ myth comes from. Preadolescent vampires resemble human children. When they’re old enough to start hunting and can reasonably protect themselves, they’ll grow into their natural traits. That’s why there’s so many stories about vampires with unnatural youth.” 

“That doesn’t make _sense,”_ Keith says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No? Nature’s a weird place, Keith,” Takashi says lightly. “Tiger babies have spots on the back of their ears to look like eyes, so predators won’t attack because they think the prey is watching. Some species of non-venomous snakes imitate the color patterns of venomous ones, so they’ll be left alone. There are bugs out there that look identical to sticks and leaves. Is it really all that strange that an apex predator would evolve to disguise its young as the offspring of the world’s dominant predator, until they could take care of themselves?” 

“I…” Keith looks bewildered and overwhelmed, unsure how to respond.

“The fact is, most of those myths and legends with demons and monsters are rooted in ordinary biology and evolution,” Takashi says. “A lot of things humans thought were mythical or magical or cursed are really just other branches of the evolutionary chain and other ways nature decided to mess around. 

“You, as a vampire, are just an apex predator somewhat related to me, a human, far back down the evolutionary chain. But at some point, nature decided your species would fit a better ecological niche as a nocturnal hunter on a liquid diet.” Takashi shrugs. “That’s it. No curses, no dying, no rabid feeding frenzies, no selling your soul, no creepy rituals or sacrifices, no viruses, no evil whatsoever. You _could_ still have an angsty teenage romance, granted, but that’s strictly a teenager thing, and not a vampire thing.”

“But I could still hurt somebody,” Keith says. Takashi can tell they’re getting to the root of the problem now, based on the way the kid anxiously curls deeper into his jacket. “I could still...I mean, I got into fights all the time... _before..._ and now I’m so much stronger and faster, I could...I could kill kids my age so easily. The other foster kids, or...or the foster parents, or anyone, if they made me angry, and I got angry a lot, and...and I’m so _hungry._ All the time. I can’t even control myself, I just need it,” he rasps. He’s staring at the bowl again, and no doubt thinking about how he’d polished off his meal in under two minutes.

“That’s because you’re _starving,_ Keith,” Takashi says patiently. “It’d be the same if you were a human who hadn’t eaten properly in months, either. You’re not eating right, and you don’t have the nutrients your body needs, so it’s desperate for whatever it can get. I promise, you get on a normal feeding cycle and that won’t happen anymore.”

“But I don’t _know_ that,” Keith says. “I’ve been like this since I _started_ drinking blood.”

“But you’ve never had access to a steady supply of blood before, right?” Takashi asks, still keeping his voice calm and even. “Rats aren’t enough for you right now. You’re still growing. You’re always hungry because you’ve never had enough, but that’s easy to fix.” 

Keith doesn’t look like he believes it.

“Let’s try this,” Takashi says, changing his approach. “Before this, did you have favorite snacks?”

Keith nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“And I’m sure you’d see some kids bringing those snacks to school sometimes, right? Maybe even wished you had them?”

Again, another nod, this time more confused.

“Well, did you leap over the table and steal it from them?”

“No!” Keith snaps, indignant. “I got into fights, but I mean...not over something like _that._ That’s stupid.” 

“Then what makes you think you’d do it now?” Takashi asks, patiently. “Because it’s blood, and there’s a weird horror and sci fi stigma attached to it?” 

Keith opens his mouth to respond, and then slowly closes it, thoughtful.

“It’s just food for you, Keith,” Takashi says, reassuring. “That’s it. It doesn’t have to be scary or weird or gross or creepy. It’s just how you eat. And there _are_ ways to get it without hurting anyone.” He gestures over his shoulder at his fridge. “Like I did. Nobody has to get hurt. You don’t ever have to kill anyone.”

Keith stares at his bowl again, but now it’s more of a careful pondering.

“As for your enhanced strength and speed,” Takashi says with a shrug, “That’s just a matter of practice. Learn your limits. Train a little. And practice controlling your temper and seeking other solutions to a problem before fighting. You’re right—you _are_ stronger, and you could hurt somebody. That just means you need to learn a little more discipline and control. That’s all.”

Keith sighs. The kid looks exhausted. Takashi doesn’t blame him; this is a lot to take in all at once. “I don’t even know how to _do_ any of that. I don’t know about any of this.” He laughs, but it’s a miserable sound, bitter and borderline hysterical. “I don’t even know anything right about what I am. I only just barely started to learn about other monsters when I got to this city.”

“Cryptids,” Takashi corrects absently. “Not ‘monsters.’ Monster is considered something of a derogatory term in the community.” 

“Oh.”

“Did you consider talking to other vampires?” Takashi asks, lightly.

Keith shakes his head quickly. “No. I thought about it, but...even if I knew how to find them...I didn’t want to be like them. I don’t want this. Didn’t want this? I don’t know. I don’t know _anything._ ” He lets out another exhausted, frustrated sigh, and digs his fingers into his hair.

“Okay, okay,” Takashi says, placating. “Easy there. There’s no shame in that. And if you thought the stuff you were reading online about vampires was real, I can see why you might have wanted to avoid them.” If he’d thought he could only learn about himself from the likes of Lestat, Dracula, Angelus, or Edward Cullen, he’d firmly avoid the community as well. 

“For the record, modern vampires have a reputation for being solitary sorts, and of course each individual is different. Any species can have one or two bad eggs, so to speak. But they’re generally smart, independent people who have their own lives and jobs, same as anybody else.” Takashi shrugs. “A lot of them are trauma surgeons and EMT’s.”

Keith breathes in sharply at that. “Like my dad?”

“Yeah,” Takashi says softly. “If your father was a vampire, he’d have been great at his job thanks to his enhanced senses.”

“Oh,” Keith says, in almost a whisper. “I didn’t…”

For the first time, something about his situation seems to finally resonate with him. Takashi can see the moment it seems to _click_ for him that being what he is doesn’t make him a monster barely restrained from murder. That it can be something positive. 

After a moment, Keith says softly, “What do I do now? I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Takashi smiles gently. “That’s where I come in, bud. I want to help you, if you’ll let me. I can give you an idea of some of your options, but you can choose what you actually do. Sound fair?” 

Keith eyes him for a moment, considering. His instinct is still to be wary, and that’s not going to go away in a day. But Takashi can tell the kid is starting to trust him more, because after a moment, he nods. 

“Okay,” Takashi says. “The way I see it, you have a couple options. The first is finding some vampires in the community who would be willing to take you in. I don’t know any personally, but I know someone who has a lot of connections. I’m sure she could find you a good home with someone trustworthy and responsible. They could show you the ropes and help you figure things out, and they would understand what you need the best.” 

Keith shifts uncomfortably at the prospect. Even with the newfound knowledge that most vampires aren’t angsty, tortured souls permanently in their goth phase, or rabid mass murderers, he doesn’t seem ready to actually meet others yet. Or maybe he’s not comfortable with the idea of being rehomed with strangers, after spending a lifetime in the foster care system and hating it. 

Takashi had suspected that would be the case. That’s why he debates option number two for about five seconds before offering it. “Or, if you aren’t ready for that—you can crash here. For now, at least. Until you figure out how to take care of yourself correctly and you’re on your feet again.” 

Keith stares at him, surprised. “What?”

Takashi shrugs. “I’m versed enough in the basics of vampires to help you get on your feet. I have the connections to get blood for you, obviously—in a safe, semi-legal way that doesn’t hurt anyone.” He nods to the empty soup mug. “I can show you how to get access to those things yourself, so you won’t feel obligated to live off rats on the streets. Those aren’t healthy for you. And this place is safe and definitely secure.”

The tension seems to rise in the kid again. “What’s the catch?” he asks, suspicious.

Takashi raises his hands placatingly. “No catch,” he says. “I mean, if you choose here, I’ll ask you to not make a mess of the place. And you’d need an assumed name for going out in public, and I’d ask that you not reveal this location to anyone without verifying with me, first. Remember, I don’t want the Covenant finding me, either. I can help you set that up, of course. But that’s it.”

Keith frowns, clearly confused. “Why?” he finally asks. “Why do all this? You don’t even know me. And…and you’re a _Shirogane_ . I don’t even _know_ anything about being a mon...a cryptid, but everyone I’ve met says Shiroganes mean death.”

Takashi closes his eyes for a moment. “It’s _because_ I’m a Shirogane. I don’t want to be a part of that anymore. I just want to use those skills and that knowledge to do something _good_ for a change. It’s like I said last night...you look like you could use a hand, and I know how to help you.” 

There’s more to it than that, of course. Takashi _does_ want to help this kid. Keith needs it. But he also doesn’t want to have to track the kid down in a few years, because he’d finally resorted to preying on people when he didn’t understand that there were other ways. 

He wants Keith to get his second chance. 

Keith still looks hesitant, so Takashi says, “You don’t have to decide right away. If you’re comfortable with it, I’d ask you to stay for a few more days at least, so I can be sure you’re healthy again before you go. But if you want to walk out that door right now and come back later, or never again, you can. At any point. I won’t stop you.” 

Keith’s silent for a long time. But eventually he nods, slowly. “Okay. I’ll...I’ll think about it. You...don’t mind me being here, for a few days?” He seems almost bewildered at the prospect. 

Takashi’s heart breaks a little for him. Even if his foster families had been good people, it must have been hard to try and fit in over and over with so many individuals. 

“I don’t mind at all,” he says, and he really does mean that. “The guest bedroom is already set up for now to block sunlight, so you can keep using that during the day. You have free reign in the rest of the place too, but be careful touching some of this stuff. I have a lot of things that might hurt you accidentally. I’ll show you what to look out for tonight, just in case.”

“I saw lots of swords and knives and things,” Keith says. There’s honest fascination in his voice, but also a little confusion. “You really trust me around that stuff?”

Takashi actually laughs. “Keith, you’re a vampire. When you’re completely healthy, you’ll probably already have more physical strength than I do. If you were out to kill me, I’d have bigger problems than if you had a knife.”

“Oh.” Keith looks sheepish. “Right.”

“Okay,” Takashi says, getting up from the table. “I’ll show you what to avoid around here, and then you can take it easy. I have Netflix, if you want to watch something in the living room. I’ll also dig out some old clothes of mine, so you can shower and change into something clean if you want. I can take your stuff to the laundromat tomorrow while you’re sleeping. Then I’m going to go pass out. I’m running on four hours of sleep. Unless you need something else tonight?”

Keith shakes his head automatically, then hesitates. After a moment he asks slowly, “Actually...could I, uh...have another….” He gestures cautiously at his soup mug.

Takashi smiles. Progress already. “Help yourself, bud. They’re all yours.” 

* * *

And so, rather unexpectedly, Takashi has a roommate. 

Takashi half expects the kid to bolt almost every evening. Every time he comes home from a late night at work it’s with bated breath, expecting to see his place deserted. Keith is an enormously stubborn fighter and simultaneously a skittish, wary street kid. Even working with him to earn his trust, Takashi’s never sure if the kid will decide it’s not worth it after all and vanish. 

It’s hard to be patient. He wants this kid to know that he just wants to _help_ so badly. But he lets Keith figure it out at his own pace. He doesn’t get in Keith’s space, but he does make sure he’s there to answer questions, to listen, or to keep him safe. 

He finds that Keith is a surprisingly quiet roommate. Of course, half of that is due to being passed out cold for most of the daylight hours. But even when he is conscious at night, he tends to be quiet and keep to himself. He’s not much of a talker and likes to keep his distance. But he does often hang out in the same room as Takashi when they’re both awake, watching TV with him on the opposite end of the couch, or reading at the kitchen table while Takashi’s making himself something to eat. 

Takashi thinks of it as almost cat-like behavior, although he never voices that thought out loud. He’s not sure if such introversion is a vampire thing, or a Keith thing. But he can see how it might have been a struggle for him with foster families, or in the system. So much activity, so many cases of forced interaction with people, were bound to grind on his nerves and eventually cause him to lash out.

Takashi doesn’t see any of these so-called ‘discipline issues’ with Keith, though. Sometimes he can see Keith getting frustrated or irritable, but he never seems to be pushed far enough that he resorts to the things on his CPS records. He seems to have grown to respect Takashi, and as the days pass, that respect turns to trust. 

Eventually, Takashi’s not afraid of coming home and finding the kid gone anymore.

Keith starts doing a lot better physically, too. Access to healthy blood on a regular basis and a safe place to hide away from the daylight hours does wonders for him. Within a week he’s got more color to his pale skin again, and his face starts to fill out a little more. After two, he looks like a perfectly healthy teenager again. His movements go from shaky and stumbling to containing a preternatural grace, and his strength and agility returns. 

His confidence starts to grow, too. For the first week or so, Keith’s still uneasy about eating in front of Takashi, and can’t seem to quite shake the revolted, shameful feelings whenever he consumes human blood. He finishes off his food as quickly as possible and usually retreats for a while after, like he’s hiding. 

That’s not all that surprising. He’d grown up thinking he was human his whole life. Even if drinking blood is perfectly natural for him, it must feel uncomfortable and strange. It will probably take a while to shake those feelings completely.

But the longer he’s there, the more comfortable he becomes with his meals. He stops being nervous about helping himself to his liquid lunches in front of Takashi. He experiments with different ways for eating—hot or cold, in bowls or mugs, or simply sticking a big straw into the packs and drinking them like the world’s grisliest Capri Sun. He doesn’t slink away after eating to hide, and the little glimpses of revulsion or shame in his expression gradually appear less and less. 

He’s getting there. Takashi’s happy for him. 

In the first week, Keith had been going through two packs of blood a day. By the second week, he’s down to one. After that, he admits he only really feels hungry once every couple of days or so, and even when he does eat, it’s not with the ravenous, desperate speed of before. 

“I’m not _hungry_ all the time,” he tells Takashi, seeming honestly surprised at the revelation. “Not like before. I guess you were right.” 

“That means you’re feeling better,” Takashi tells him, smiling. “I’m glad.”

Once Keith is healthy again, Takashi half expects the kid to want to leave. He’d been nervous about being tied down to any one person, or living with strangers. But to his surprise, it’s Keith that brings up the topic of living arrangements, one evening after Takashi gets home from his classes.

“You said I had two options,” Keith says. “I think...I want to still stay here. If that’s okay with you.”

He stares at the floor when he speaks. It’s almost like he’s afraid to meet Takashi’s eyes, like he doesn’t actually want to see the rejection first. He’s been passed between homes for so long he probably doesn’t expect a positive answer. He’d still been brave enough to ask anyway.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Takashi says.

Keith’s head shoots up, and he gives Takashi a surprised, but cautiously optimistic, smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Takashi promises. “I will say I think you should still speak to some actual vampires at some point. They’d be a lot better at teaching you things you need to know about yourself. But if you’re more comfortable living here, you’re welcome to.”

“Thanks,” Keith says. The relief in his expression, in his voice, is almost overwhelming. “I won’t be a problem, I promise.”

“I know you won’t, Keith,” Takashi says. “You’re a good kid. You’re gonna be fine.”

Once he knows for sure Keith is a permanent member of his household, Takashi makes a few changes. He starts by getting him a new identity, forging the documentation for Ryou Tanaka’s younger brother, Akira Tanaka, and all guardianship documents to go along with it. The two look superficially similar enough that it would pass as a story. Allura’s contacts are able to remove Keith from the CPS files, just to prevent any wild accusations of kidnapping. If someone ever actually sees Keith and recognizes him, that could still cause trouble. Since he’d disappeared two states over, it’s unlikely.

He also makes some upgrades around his apartment. Through Rolo, he’s able to get a hold of some ‘darks,’ the inverse of a light bulb that emits intense shadows, designed by witches. He installs these in Keith’s room, and replaces the windows in the entire apartment with spelled glass that prevents the harmful effects of sunlight. Keith gets his own shelf in the fridge for his liquid diet, and when Keith eventually admits he has a preference for B positive, Takashi also makes an effort to get that blood type in higher quantities from Rolo. 

When the kid is ready to try going out in public more often, Takashi helps him with that, too. He orders some specialty contacts that will dull Keith’s red eyes to a less noticeable brownish gray, and buys him a few pairs of dark glasses to help with light sensitivity in brighter environments. 

“Won’t people be suspicious?” Keith asks, disbelieving, the first time Takashi hands them over. “It’s night. Who wears sunglasses at night?”

“Just tell them you have a medical condition,” Takashi says with a shrug. “Most people stop asking after that, since they’re scared to put their foot in it.” 

It does work. As long as Keith conceals his eye color with the glasses or contacts, and is careful to not smile too much or bare his fangs, he can pass for human easily. Keith is a little more comfortable going out on his own after that, especially when he’s not afraid of jumping the nearest human for their liquid insides out of ravening hunger anymore. 

Takashi uses the opportunity to take Keith with him on safer trips to notable places in the cryptid community as well, to gradually introduce him to the non-human world. Despite being a cryptid himself, Keith is completely new to almost everything about cryptids of any species. But Takashi stresses the importance of familiarizing himself with the community, so he can learn to be more independent in it and not completely reliant on Takashi himself, and Keith is a quick study. He even accompanies Takashi on bartering trips with Rolo and Nyma, learning how to get access to his own food and helping with minor errands.

Most importantly, Takashi starts training Keith in meditation and combat. 

Takashi gets the idea when he comes home from work and finds Keith carefully looking through his collection of swords and knives. There’s one he keeps going back to in particular, running his fingers over the hilt almost fondly. When Takashi asks him about it, he looks nostalgic.

“I think my dad had one like this,” he says. “It’s one of the only memories I have of him. He said he got it from my mom.” His hand pulls away from the knife hilt, and he crosses his arms in front of himself. “But I didn’t get to keep it when they put me in the system. Too dangerous for a kid.”

“You can keep that one, if you want,” Takashi offers. “I can show you how to use it, too.”

Keith looks surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” Takashi confirms. “It might be a good idea, anyway.” Keith was more than strong enough to drive off a would-be mugger, but he’d have to use his unnatural power and agility to do so. It could bring up questions that should stay buried. A weapon might deter human predators not in the know about cryptids from even considering a supposedly skinny teenaged kid as a mark.

Keith accepts the knife almost reverently. “Thanks.”

So Takashi has the kid start to meet him at his studio after classes. He teaches him how to use the knife, and also instructs him in one of the martial arts forms he’d learned with the Covenant. The goal with both is to teach Keith control—to have a firm understanding of the strength at his disposal and how to manage it without hurting anyone. He stresses meditative techniques too, in order to help with the kid’s impatience and frustration, and they help Keith stay calmer and more focused. 

Keith seems to enjoy these lessons, even the meditation ones, which are more of a struggle for him. He’s an incredibly fast learner when it comes to combative techniques. He is a little nervous about sparring with Takashi, at first, unsure of his own strength. But Takashi is patient with him, and Keith learns how to better control his own power soon enough. 

In the end, months after that fateful day in the alley, Keith is a very different person than he had been. He’s healthy, confident, and safe, no longer afraid of his own nature or what he’s capable of. He’s completely comfortable around Takashi now, and no longer has any shred of distrust or wariness regarding this particular ‘Shirogane.’

Takashi’s happy to see it. He’s proud of how far Keith’s managed to come.

And if he’s honest with himself, it’s been kind of nice to have a little brother too.


	6. Chupacabra chupacabra: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this is where the murder mysteries start, which means some of the tags start coming into play. Heed the warnings.

“Sometimes there’s no good answer to a bad situation. Sometimes there’s only trying to find the answer that results in the fewest casualties.”   
—Arthur Harrington-Price,  _ Imaginary Numbers  _

**_A secure apartment, about to have lunch_ **

It’s maybe a month after Keith’s eighteenth birthday when Takashi gets the call.

They’re getting close to winter by then, and the weather’s starting to turn. Garrison is south enough that snow isn’t common, other than the occasional light flurries. But it is still getting chilly out, the days are shorter, and the nights are progressively longer. And, like with other parts of the animal kingdom, it has just as much of an effect on cryptid activity.

Some cryptids hate winter. Species that fare better in sunlight, or in warmer temperatures, dislike the turn of the seasons. Cold-blooded reptilian variants, or avids, tend to be foremost here. They retreat to summer homes or spend most of their time hiding indoors, and some even go into hibernation. 

Allura admits to being more miserable in the winter months. As a bird-like caladrius, she does not enjoy the cold. She keeps her penthouse temperatures cranked well into the seventies, and almost never leaves. 

But some cryptids  _ love  _ winter. Keith has already admitted to a fondness for it. When ‘night’ starts at four thirty as opposed to eight, he has a lot more time to stay active. He can even gain access to stores and places that are normally closed by the time he usually wakes in other seasons. 

The same is true for other nocturnal cryptid species, which can be both a blessing and a curse. The ones who actively do good things for the community have more time to spare, and the ones who are indifferent to humans one way or another don’t really cause problems with their extra hours. But the nocturnal trouble makers having more time to act can be a problem, and winter months can be hectic in their own ways.

So when Takashi gets the call around noon from Allura, he doesn’t think too much of it. Getting a business call from Allura is never a good thing, exactly, but these days it’s usually more small-fry stuff. Bogeymen spooking humans for fun, taliypo knocking over garbage bins, someone’s pet coatl escaping and retreating into a human’s house for warmth. It all needs to be dealt with, but it won’t bring the Covenant down on their heads immediately.

But Allura’s voice is dark and urgent when he answers the cell. “I need you here immediately. We have a serious problem.”

Takashi frowns, and immediately starts shoving the sandwich fixings he’d just been taking out back in the fridge. “I’m on my way. How bad are we talking?”

“People are dying,” Allura says curtly. “Bring your gear. You will most likely want to survey the situation as soon as you can.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I finish gearing up,” Takashi promises, and hangs up.

Winter poses challenges with the cold, the dark, and slippery footing from the occasional flurry. But it does also have its advantages. The long, thick woolen coat Takashi wears can also hide a frankly absurd amount of weaponry, including a small sword and some larger firearms. He arms himself as quickly as possible, in addition to the usual weapons he always has on his person. 

He scribbles a quick note to Keith, who will still be in a sun-coma for a few more hours— _ Call from Allura, not sure when I’ll be back— _ and then heads out the door.

Allura had sounded stressed, so he doesn’t even pause to get an offering for the Aeslin mice like he usually does. They’ll be disappointed, but they’ll live. From the sounds of it, if Takashi doesn’t move, other people won’t survive.

He makes it to the penthouse in record time. Security lets him through with less hassle than usual—clearly, Allura had warned them in advance. Coran lets him in quickly, and immediately escorts him to the study, past a sea of Aeslin mice that enthusiastically “ _ Hail!”  _ to the High Priests of Damn It Stop Trying To Get Yourself Killed and Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness. The  _ hails  _ are moderately quieter than usual, which means on some level the mice are aware of the solemnity. 

Takashi understands why when he gets to the study. The four head priests that usually act as stenographers are already there, at the platform on the map table, which means Allura has already enacted the law of Witness for Food. She’s not kidding around for this one, so it has to be serious.

“Good,” Allura says curtly, the moment he steps through the door. “You’re here. Come and see this.” 

The glass-topped map is already marked with circles, exes, and notations, all on the western side of the city, opposite to where Takashi lives. That already explains why he hadn’t heard of any immediate problems. Allura also has a sheaf of photographs and papers in her hands, which she spreads out along the other side of the map.

One look at the photos tells Takashi this one is already going to be bad. They depict three people, all women, all with varying degrees of mutilation covering their bodies. 

Further inspection indicates all of them are cryptids. The closest photograph shows a harpy, but almost all of her feathers have been plucked out. He can only barely tell what she is based on a few other minor facial features and her birdlike legs. He guesses the second might be a wadjet, although that’s purely based on what he thinks are cobra-like fangs pried out of her mouth—it’s hard to tell based on the grainy photograph. The third almost looks human, but Takashi has seen enough of the same drop-dead gorgeous blond females who look strangely related to recognize a dragon princess. 

Takashi’s seen enough gruesome images in his time to not be physically sick at the sight, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling sick inside. This is vile. Allura had been right to call him immediately.

Unlike Takashi, Allura  _ does  _ look a little green. Caladrius aren’t aggressive by nature, being natural healers. They have an instinctive need to fix hurts where they can, and injury and death, especially maliciously inflicted, tends to make them uncomfortable or physically sick. But she keeps her composure like a champion, and taps the marked points on the board. 

“I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “Over the past three weeks, women have been disappearing. They vanish for a few days, and then the bodies are found in these states. The first two—” she taps the photos of the harpy and the wadjet, “—vanished here and here—” she taps the points on the map, “—and were found in an abandoned apartment complex retrofitted for nocturnal cryptids, and in the community sewer complexes, respectively.” 

“Cryptid-dominated communities,” Takashi notes. “No chance for human law enforcement to report on it.” 

Allura nods. “The third,” she points to the dragon princess, “disappeared here, and was found in an alley in an area more trafficked by humans. However, she was discovered by cryptids in the police force, who were able to ensure the body was properly returned to the dragon princess nest, rather than being entered into a morgue.” 

“So nothing on the radar just yet,” Takashi says. It’s not really a relief _ ,  _ not with so gruesome a series of murders happening. But at least the Covenant won’t be breathing down their necks due to the discovery of bodies that were definitely not human.

“Yet,” Allura agrees, “But a fourth woman went missing as of last night, and this time she was human.” She removes another photograph from the stack of papers, depicting a pretty young woman in her mid twenties, with caramel skin, dark hair, and a big smile, happily clinging to the arm of an attentive, smiling man. 

They look like a happy couple. But Takashi has a gut feeling their story won’t end happily.

“Her family has already reported her missing to the authorities,” Allura says. “If the pattern holds true, she may reappear in a few days, in a location where the police will be able to find her. At which point, not only will she be beyond help, there will be actual records of a disappearance case for the Covenant to dig into.” 

She hesitates. “Assuming that this is not already the work of the Covenant? The original victims were cryptids...”

But Takashi shakes his head grimly. “No. Even assuming agents could enter the country without either of us knowing about it, this isn’t how they operate. If they were purging cryptids, no bodies would be left around for people to find. They’d be disposed of discreetly. And the Covenant wouldn’t include humans in their kills, not unless they were harboring known cryptids and considered ‘corrupted.’” 

Allura’s lips press together for a moment. “I did not find any evidence of cryptid activity when studying her file,” she admits. “In which case…”

“This is some kind of serial killer,” Takashi says grimly. “They’re killing with purpose, for some kind of reason.” 

He circles the map to the notations Allura had marked on the glass, already studying, searching for some kind of pattern. He voices his thoughts out loud as he struggles to find the connection. 

“Victims have disappeared in both the day and night, so we’re not dealing with a species that’s strictly nocturnal or diurnal. Or we’re dealing with a team. They do know about cryptid-safe spaces, but that doesn’t exclude humans as potential suspects. The only targets so far have been women, but they don’t seem to have any sort of connection...there are mammals, reptiles and avians all represented here. The bodies aren’t re-appearing anywhere near where they were taken, and all disappearances and reappearances are spread over a twelve-block radius that covers everything from residential districts to industrial and shopping areas.” He taps his fingers on the glass in frustration. “There’s no  _ pattern  _ here.”

“Do you see anything that our eyes may have missed, head priests?” Allura asks, glancing at the four Aselin mice.

The mice cluster together to consult amongst themselves, and then the green one steps forward, standing up tall on its hind legs. “There is but one Pattern, Lion Goddess,” it squeaks importantly, “and that is that all females here were bonded in some way, prior to disappearing.” 

Takashi frowns, and glances thoughtfully at the photo of the human girl and her significant other again. “Hmm. It’s the only connection we have so far, but it’s something to think on.”

“Indeed,” Allura says. “I will see if I can look more into this angle with the information I can gather from the families.”

“Is there anything else to work with?” Takashi asks. “Surveillance footage, other photos, testimonies, witnesses?”

“I have some here,” Allura says, gesturing to the stack of papers and photographs. “There are some additional photos of the crime scenes and images taken from surveillance footage. It was difficult to get some of this information, and there isn’t as much as I would like. I will have Coran give you copies of everything we have obtained so far though, and you can review.” 

“Right. Thanks.” Takashi sighs for a moment, rubbing his forehead, and then says softly, “Allura...why didn’t I know about this before now?”

Allura gives him a flat look, but seems hesitant to answer.

“Three weeks, Allura,” Takashi says. “A single death can’t make a pattern, and with the spread here, I understand even the second not drawing notice. But the third disappearance? The third death? I should have been brought in by then. I might have been able to make a difference.” 

Allura sighs. She looks very tired, suddenly, far more than she should. “I wanted to call you in immediately,” she admits. “I could tell there was something wrong by the time the dragon princess disappeared. As you said, a pattern had been formed. But the dragon princesses were insistent that you not be involved, and it was their nestmate. I believe they honestly thought you might be the cause of the murders.”

Takashi closes his eyes and takes a deep, struggling sigh.  _ Patience yields focus,  _ he reminds himself sharply. 

He can’t blame the dragon princesses for being afraid of him, even five years later. The Covenant of St. George had hunted dragons to extinction, according to all reports. As far as anyone knew, dragon princesses had some kind of symbiotic relationship with them. They were cold and slow to trust, and had no reason at all to believe Takashi was on their side; the Covenant had taken everything from them. Perhaps the only cryptids who had the right to fear and hate him more were the yōkai. __

But still, it  _ hurts,  _ to know he might have been able to save one of them and make a difference, and how he’s lost that chance.

“They have a great deal of resources and believed they could find their missing sister on their own,” Allura continues. “The strength of a dragon princess nest is not inconsiderable. Family and community is very important to them. I thought perhaps they could succeed, and a matter of the community could remain in the community. I was wrong.” 

She swallows. Takashi can see the pain of responsibility on her shoulders, and her wings draw closer around herself, as though shielding her. 

“I will not make that mistake again. The moment I realized this killer had struck a fourth time, I called you. I am sure the nest will not be happy, but I will deal with the ramifications if it means catching this despicable person.”

Takashi nods. “Alright. I swear, I will do everything in my power to make sure we can catch whoever is doing this.”

He doesn’t make the promise to bring the human girl back alive. He desperately hopes he can, but the odds that she’s still alive are dropping by the second. He won’t make a promise he can’t be certain he’ll keep. 

“Thank you. Keep me updated on the situation, and I will provide what information I can. Coran—make copies of everything for Takashi, will you?”

“Of course, miss,” Coran, waiting by the study door, nods in acknowledgement. His normally cheerful face is somber as he collects the photos and profile documents together into a stack, and heads out the door to complete his task.

“Allura,” Takashi says. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

He takes a deep breath for a moment. She’s not going to like what he says next. “Stay indoors until this case blows over. Or keep Coran with you at all times if you have to go out. It’s cold out, anyway—I know you don’t like leaving the penthouse. Maybe keep it that way for a while.”

“Are you worried about me, Takashi?” Allura asks, raising her chin proudly. “I do not need your protection.”

He gestures at the city map on the table. “Neither does a wadjet, or a harpy, but they were still taken somehow. You fit the target requirements.”

“I am not seeing anyone.”

“We don’t even know if that  _ is  _ a requirement for this killer yet,” Takashi says. “Could still be a coincidence. A caladrius is a tempting target, and you’re a well known figure in the community. If somebody has an opportunity to get at you, we both know they’ll take it. Just be careful, please?” 

Allura sighs, but nods. “I will take care. And there is no way this killer will be able to get past  _ my  _ security in my home. I will be safe.”

“Thank you,” Takashi says. “That’s all I ask.”

He collects his copies from Coran and heads out the door, waving only a hasty goodbye to the Aeslin mice and their chorus of  _ Hails  _ for their departing High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness. It’s already close to two, which means he only has a couple more hours of prime daylight to do some on-sight scouting before the sun sets. And for this, he wants every bit of an advantage he can get.

His first stop will be the place the young human woman, a girl named Rosa, had reportedly disappeared at. She had left work around five in the evening, but never made it home. Her boyfriend had gotten worried around eight pm and called her friends and family, but no one had seen her. 

With no other leads to work with, it’s the only shot Takashi has. But with the disappearance happening only last night, the trail might still be moderately fresh. 

He manages to find parking near her office and pumps the meter full of quarters as he surveys the area. It’s a relatively nice looking district. Safe, clean, and friendly. Not the sort of place one expects a woman to disappear. 

At this time of day it’s relatively quiet. Most people are at work or in school, and the November chill is enough to drive most people indoors if they don’t have a reason to be out. There are a few people here and there, though. A dog walker cajoles four or five excitable animals down the street with practiced experience. A kid around Keith’s age plays on his phone on a bench while tapping along to the beat in his headphones. Several people huddle around a coffee cart set up by an enterprising older gentleman, indulging in warm drinks. The occasional walker passes, and the occasional shopper leaves one of the many little boutiques or specialty shops on either side of the road.

Any one of them could be a killer keeping an eye out for their next victim. Or anyone of them could  _ be  _ the next victim. And there’s no way to know at face value. 

Setting his jaw grimly, Takashi sets to work.

He retraces Rosa’s usual path home from her office to her apartment, keeping an eye out for any potential clues. It’s only about a four block hike, and under better circumstances, probably a pleasant little walk. But she’d disappeared somewhere along this route, so Takashi scours every inch of it, checking every back alley and side road along the way. He looks for everything he can possibly think of—signs of struggle, evidence of someone or something living in the area, discarded spell components, residue from regurgitated meals or non-human fluids. 

He tries everything, but he finds nothing. There’s a healthy population of small animals along the way, which means nothing, sentient or non, is feeding on the resident rats and pigeons that might prefer a bigger target. There’s no sign that the animals are frightened or hiding either, which means if something is preying on sentient cryptids, it doesn’t bother the smaller critters. 

Canvassing the area discreetly doesn’t offer much information either. The commute transitions into apartment complexes two blocks down, but the whole area is relatively quiet, in a safer part of the city without a high crime rate. Nobody heard any kind of commotion, because if anyone had, it would have been the talk of the hour. It suggests that Rosa had either left with her captor willingly, or had been coerced without putting up a fuss, but that still doesn’t help Takashi narrow his options down any.

His only other potential leads are the sewer grates he spots along the way. It’s possible the attacker is striking from there, or using the sewers to move their victims and dispose of the bodies later. One of the bodies  _ had  _ been found in a sewer near here. 

It’s something he can possibly follow up on, but he’s not prepared for the sewers tonight. The underground was built by humans for subways and trains, but it ultimately belongs to the cryptids. It’s primarily bugbear, hidebehind, and bogeyman territory. Takashi has enough of a reputation with them by now that they’ll at least remain frostily cordial if he takes a stroll through their domain, but he’s not exactly  _ welcome,  _ and it’s better not to push his luck. Plus, the sewers can hide nastier things as well, and he didn’t gear for a spelunking trek. 

He tries visiting the location the dragon princess had been discovered in next, five blocks over. The other two bodies had been found in places he won’t exactly be welcome in, although if he has to, he’ll use Allura’s name to at least gain a few minutes to investigate. But the dragon princess had been found left on a fire escape in an alley, which was more publically accessible. He runs over the whole area with a fine tooth comb, hoping to find something that the other cryptids investigating had missed, some clue to give him something to work with.

He doesn’t find anything. 

By the time darkness falls two and a half hours later, Takashi has almost nothing to work with. He’s frustrated, but there’s not much else he can do right now, not without better night gear and a clear head for what to do next. 

_ I’ll comb through Allura’s photos and surveillance,  _ Takashi decides, as he heads back to his apartment.  _ Maybe I can pick up a clue in those that I can’t see when the crime scenes are cleaned up.  _

Keith is awake by the time Takashi gets back. After two years on a steady diet of human blood, Keith’s built up a little more resistance to the sun, which mostly means he starts to wake up a little before dusk and can manage to stay up a little past dawn. 

He’s usually groggy when the sun is still out, though, even if he’s not completely unconscious anymore. Takashi affectionately refers to the condition as ‘sun dazed,’ since Keith has a tendency to remain in an upright stupor and occasionally zone out, sometimes in the middle of something. And the poor kid can’t even drink coffee anymore to wake up faster.

He’s passed the sun daze and into full nocturnal awareness by the time Takashi makes it back, though, and glances up from the couch when Takashi opens the door. “How’s the mission with Allura?”

“Bad,” Takashi says. He tosses his coat and extra weapons aside, and pulls out the manilla folder to spread the contents out over the kitchen table. “This one’s...really bad, Keith. A girl’s life is on the line and we’ve got no leads.” 

Keith frowns, switches off the TV, and comes over to look at the photographs. He makes a soft hissing noise at the sight of the mutilated bodies, and instinctively bares his teeth in anger. “Somebody’s doing this to people?”

“Yes,” Takashi says grimly. “Three so far that we know of, and a fourth missing.”

Keith scowls at that. He’s not great with his words or his temper, but his heart is always in the right place, and he hates seeing people suffering. “You’ll catch them,” he says after a moment, confident.

“I hope so.”

Shiro gets to work with the photos, organizing them by time and location, trying to see if there are any discernible patterns. Nothing jumps out at him immediately, but if it was obvious, the Aeslin mice would probably have already seen it. He digs through the profiles next, and pages of case notes, looking for any clue that might help him stop this killer.

A plate clacks down next to one of the photos. Keith glares at him over the pages, and says, “Eat.”

Takashi blinks at the sandwich on the plate, and then back up to Keith. “I’m not—”

“I can hear your stomach grumbling even if you’re ignoring it,” Keith cuts him off, “and I can’t smell any residual food on you, which means you haven’t eaten all day. You can’t bring this guy down if you pass out ‘cause you’re hungry. Eat while you work.”

__ “I really hate that you can do that,” Takashi grumbles. Of all the traits a vampire roommate could have that might have been troublesome, Takashi had never quite expected heightened sense of smell and hearing to be the most irritable. 

But he dutifully picks up half of the cut sandwich and chews on it while he reads through the documents. It’s not gourmet, but considering Keith can’t exactly sample his own food preparation anymore and is making it entirely through imitation, it’s not half bad. Keith nudges a glass of water towards him as well, unrelenting, and Takashi hydrates under duress as he works.

The profiles of the four missing or dead women don’t reveal any useful clues or connections to tie them to a single killer. Frustrated, Takashi throws himself at the pictures again as he wolfs down the other half of his sandwich. 

At first, he doesn’t notice anything of interest in the cropped photos from surveillance cameras and hastily snapped phone images of the places the victims disappeared and reappeared. But after studying the faces in one of the earliest photos, he suddenly freezes.

He drops his sandwich on the plate and snatches up the photo, so fast even Keith starts. The picture is cut from a security camera’s feed on the night the first victim, the harpy, went missing. It’s near a club that’s known to cater to cryptids, and there’s a prominent shot of several patrons entering and leaving. The image is grainy and not well focused, but he swears he recognizes one of the people lurking near the alley leading to the back entrance. 

“Him,” he says softly, pointing to the figure. “I saw him today, when I was canvassing the area.” 

Keith squints at the photo. His eyes aren’t any better at discerning the details in the picture, and he frowns a little. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” He recognizes the kid, no question. He looks around the same age as Keith, and of some kind of latino heritage. The winter jacket and the headphones match the ones he’d seen the same kid wearing while he’d been playing on his phone outside the latest victim’s office.

Playing on his phone...or maybe watching for the next victim.

Keith scours the other images, and then points at one on the far side of the table. “He’s here too. Just barely, but you can see him in the corner.”

Takashi studies the photo. This one is from the discovery of the dragon princess’ body, nearly three weeks after the last photo the mysterious kid was in. The cryptid police officers had managed to quietly and discreetly spirit away the dead dragon princess to her sisters and had never opened an official crime scene, but they had been smart enough to take a few photos for Allura to work with. The mystery kid is just barely visible in the corner of one of the shots, down the alley. You’d have to be looking for him to actually spot him.

Takashi takes a sharp breath. “I think we have a suspect.”

The remains of the sandwich are forgotten on the table as Takashi leaps up and starts recollecting his gear. Keith doesn’t call him on it. He understands the urgency of the situation.

“Do you want me to talk to the Marmora Society?” he asks after a moment, still frowning at the images. “See if they’ve heard of this guy?”

The Marmora Society is still a relatively new connection of Keith’s. About six months ago, after Keith had grown comfortable living as Takashi’s unofficially adopted younger brother, Takashi had finally convinced him to reach out to some actual vampires for assistance. He’d argued that although he knew the basics regarding vampires, there was no way he could know the intricacies and necessities of vampire health in the same way actual vampires could. Keith could be missing important health milestones or needs and neither of them would ever know.

Keith had grudgingly agreed, and Allura had provided assistance in finding them a contact. The result had been the Marmora Society, a group of vampires that lived in Garrison. The Society had been established for years and was ultimately dedicated to the preservation of their species and acclimation to modern-day society. They policed their own species for offenses, assisted with supplying food resources, undercover stories, housing arrangements, and job opportunities, and interceded on legal and governmental scenarios that could prove problematic for their members. Amongst other things, that also meant they had an exceptional informational network throughout the city, on par with Allura’s own, although it reached different sections of the cryptid community.

The Marmora Society had been suspicious of Takashi at first, suspecting a trap when he and Keith had first reached out to them. One of their members, a vampire by the name of Ulaz, had finally vouched for him to their organization. They had eventually been willing to accept Keith and teach him about his own heritage and abilities. They had even offered to give Keith a place to stay amongst themselves, although he had declined. 

And, sometimes, they would even offer information in their network—provided Keith was the one to ask for it.

Takashi considers, then nods. “Yes. As long as they feel like sharing, anyway. I know it’s hard to get information out of them sometimes.” 

“I can try,” Keith says confidently, heading for his own jacket.

Takashi nods. “Great. I’ll let Allura know as well, see if she can get any feelers out.” He intends to head straight back to the area Rosa had disappeared in to search for her and this suspect. But if that fails, dozens of other eyes searching can’t hurt.

Takashi’s still not sure if the mystery kid is human or cryptid, but he’s not taking chances, and arms himself for battle. In addition to his usual weaponry from before, he also packs a few small mag-lites and a pair of night vision goggles. If the kid tries to disappear into the sewer, Takashi isn’t letting him get away.

“I’ll text you if I hear anything useful,” Keith says, as he shrugs into his jacket. “Otherwise I’ll leave something for you to look at in the morning.” 

“Thanks, Keith.” 

“Call me if you need my help,” Keith adds. “I’m serious.” 

“If it comes to that,” Takashi agrees, “I will.” 

He hates involving Keith in any of his work. Keith’s had a hard life, and he deserves a chance to make something of it now without getting tangled up in so much violence. That had never been Takashi’s intention when he’d offered the kid a safe place to stay.

But it won’t be the first time Keith has joined him on one of his missions. Eight months ago Takashi had come home, bloodied and limping, from a mission that had ended poorly. Keith had bandaged him up, determined and anxious all in one, and monitored his health aggressively until Allura had arrived to perform her healing. The next night he had insisted that next time, he  _ was  _ helping. Takashi had argued that it was too dangerous, that he lacked the experience, that Keith ought to have a life of his own. But Keith had pointed out fairly that if Takashi hadn’t been teaching him combat for this, then for what?

“You didn’t give up on me when everybody else had,” he’d said. “You got me a second chance— _ this  _ is what I want to do with it. I can help people, and I can keep  _ you  _ alive.” 

Takashi had been reluctant at first, but Keith had been insistent. And he  _ was  _ helpful. His senses and abilities as a vampire opened up other avenues of hunting Takashi normally couldn’t access. He was a natural fighter, and fiercely loyal, which made him great backup in a fight. Takashi’s learned to trust him in missions, over time.

He’s still not  _ thrilled  _ with involving Keith in missions. But this is how Keith wants to grow, and if that’s the case, all Takashi can do is support him as much as possible and trust him to handle himself. 

And the way this mission is going, he may very well need Keith’s abilities before everything is finished.

He calls Allura and lets her know his progress as he drives across the city to the last place he’d seen the mystery kid. Allura agrees to spread the word immediately on the new suspect, and see if her dozens of contacts can’t figure out who this kid is and what he’s doing there. Or, even more importantly, where to find him.

It’s close to seven at night, by the time Takashi makes it back to the target area. There are still people about, getting last minute shopping in and having dinner at the restaurants in the area. But it’s cold enough without the sun that nobody is hanging around outside if they don’t have to, and the streets are deserted.

Mystery kid isn’t on the bench Takashi had first seen him at, outside Rosa’s office, not that Takashi had expected him to still be there. He does a full sweep of the immediate area, discreetly checking in the shops and restaurants too, but he doesn’t see his suspect. 

“Not close to finished yet,” Takashi mutters. The night is young yet. There’s still a lot of searching to do.

Takashi extends his route, and does a full circuit of the entire area where the disappearances and reappearances have occured. There’s twelve blocks to circle through, and they’re full of stores, coffee shops, restaurants, and apartment complexes. It’s a lot of ground to cover, but the victims had all disappeared while traveling and the bodies had re-appeared at or below ground, so he keeps his route close to the streets. He goes through every nook and cranny, every alley, makes note of every manhole cover, and when he’s done it all he does it again. And a third time. 

He doesn’t find his suspect. He doesn’t find any bodies, either, or any clues.

He keeps at it doggedly, but by two in the morning, he’s finally forced to call it quits. Seven hours of patrolling would be exhausting on anyone, but doing it in the dark, in frigid conditions, is brutal. He pushes himself hard, and warms up with short breaks by ducking into late night coffee shops or bars, never the same one twice. But he can’t keep it up forever, and his strength is wearing thin. 

He hates to leave. There’s a killer out there, and he has a lead. He doesn’t know how much longer that girl has, and he doesn’t know what other victims could be in danger. If he’s here, he has a chance to save. To protect. If he leaves, their only line of defense is gone. 

But he can’t save anyone if he’s dropping dead from exhaustion. He doesn’t know what he’s hunting, still. But human or cryptid, if he’s not prepared, a bad encounter  _ will  _ end in his death. And then there won’t be anyone left at all to stop them, or to stop the Covenant from sniffing them out.

It kills him to do so, but he heads home.

_ Just for a few hours,  _ he promises himself.  _ Crash for a few hours, get your strength back, get warmed up, and then you’ll be right back at it.  _

If there’s one thing the Covenant taught him that’s been invaluable, it’s how to be absolutely  _ relentless  _ about a mission, and how to see it through until the end, no matter what.

He texts Keith for updates, and gets a negative in reply.  _ They’re still digging through their contacts, but they’re looking,  _ Keith texts back.  _ No leads yet.  _

_ I’m crashing for a few hours,  _ Takashi texts back.  _ But wake me if you get a solid lead on this guy.  _

He doesn’t wait for acknowledgement. He knows Keith will follow through if there’s even a chance at taking this guy down. Instead, he shucks off just enough of the weapons to be able to sleep safely, and collapses on his bed fully clothed, hoping for at least a few hours of sleep.


	7. Chupacabra chupacabra: Part Two

“I think sometimes the world doesn’t really care about how we feel. It just keeps on turning, and we’re expected to do whatever we have to in order to keep up.”   
—Alex Price,  _ Pocket Apocalypse  _

**_In bed, when it’s way too early in the morning to deal with this_ **

Allura calls at seven in the morning. 

The sound of her ringtone is like a death knell. Never mind that he’d barely gotten just over four hours of sleep—Takashi is wide awake the moment he hears the first notes. Wide awake, and with his stomach already sinking in dread. 

“The police found Rosa’s body this morning,” Allura says, without any preamble. 

Takashi’s heart ices over at that. “It’s too early,” he says, helpless. “The other victims didn’t show up the day after they disappeared. We should have had  _ time.” _

“We didn’t,” Allura says. Her voice is grim. “She was found barely half an hour ago. I’ll send you the address. You should get there as soon as possible.”

“Right,” Takashi says, as he bolts out of bed, and recollects his weaponry. “Damn it! I was  _ there  _ in the area. I missed her by just a few hours.  _ Damn it.”  _

Logically, he knows he wouldn’t have been able to do anything for her anyway. She would have already been dead. She had probably been dead by the time Takashi had been patrolling. 

Logically, he knows he’s not at fault for any of this. He’d been doing everything he could. He  _ knows  _ that.

But he can’t help but feel the weight of that girl’s death on his shoulders anyway. He should have done  _ better.  _ He should have protected, made a difference. This is on him. It’s  _ his fault.  _

Allura must know what’s going through his head, because she says in a more gentle voice than before, “Takashi. The blame for this does not lie at your feet. You didn’t kill her. You did everything you could to  _ save  _ her.”

“Does it matter?” Takashi asks, bitter. “At the end of the day, she’s still dead.”

“And others will follow, unless we act quickly,” Allura says. “You can’t save her. But if you hurry, you can save others. Her last offering may be to provide clues that will prevent future victims.”

“Right.” Takashi snatches his keys and heads for the door. “I’m on my way.” 

He hesitates a moment, and then adds softer, “He’s accelerating, Allura.” The first deaths had been more hidden, buried away in protected cryptid communities. They had come slower. But the dragon princess had been placed somewhere more noticable, and now human police had found the latest victim. The disappearances, the kills, they’re happening faster.

Somebody wants to be noticed. 

“I know,” Allura says, just as softly. “We must hurry.”

“I’m on it,” Takashi promises.

He checks his messages in the car. The address Allura gives him leads to a street three blocks over from where the dragon princess had been found, and he heads in that direction. An earlier message before the call indicates they’ve had no luck yet identifying their primary suspect, but word has been spread through the community to keep an eye out.

There’s also a text from Keith, but it’s just more bad news. The Marmora Society has no idea about the mystery kid either. He’s never been seen in cryptid databases or networks in the city, and he isn’t in any human networks either with a record. 

It means Takashi’s still flying blind. He has no idea if he’s facing down a human or a cryptid, and this guy’s now got four murders to his credit. Four murders,  _ and  _ he’d potentially eluded Takashi last night for hours. 

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel.  _ No more.  _ He doesn’t know when the next victim will be targeted, not if the culprit’s changing tactics, but he’s not letting this happen again.

Morning traffic is rough, fighting against school busses and commuters, but Takashi still manages to make it to the scene of the crime in record time. Forensics and police are already on the scene, and the area has been marked off with tape. Curious gawkers watch from the sidelines with horrified fascination and curiosity, and Takashi is able to blend into the crowd discreetly to observe. 

Even with a whirl of activity from the police, and with the body carefully covered, the scene is still gruesome. The killer had left the girl’s body in a dumpster, this time, on a mound of garbage. Takashi can’t see it, but he knows she’s covered in the same mutilation marks as the other three victims. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ he apologizes to her in his own head. It doesn’t count for much, since it’s not like she can hear him. He thinks it anyway.  _ I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I tried.  _

But like Allura said, he can save others. So while the police work the crime scene in their own way, Takashi works it in his.

He won’t be able to check the immediate area until the police have packed up and moved on, and that’s likely to take hours. There could be some benefit there—he’ll have to see if Allura has a contact that can get a copy of the forensics reports. But he can look for other clues in the meantime. 

His gaze sweeps the area, picking out all the possible exits and escapes. The killer had to have gotten her here somehow. He’d swept through this place twice last night, and there hadn’t been a body. At some point between two and six thirty in the morning, the killer had dumped her here. Did he have a staging ground in the area? A convenient sewer path? Could he be working with someone, maybe?

Takashi  _ almost  _ misses him. But as he does another visual sweep, searching for clues, he spots the exact same kid he’d seen yesterday in the crowd of bystanders. The hood on his jacket is pulled up today, but Takashi recognizes the headphones. The kid’s on the fringes of the crowd, watching the police work with an intensity that’s alarming.

Takashi’s eyes narrow, but he forces himself to keep looking around, as though he hasn’t spotted his suspect. He keeps all his senses trained on the kid, even as he subtly begins to shift through the crowd, pretending like he’s trying to get past them to go to work. 

Coming back to the scene of the crime. Witnessing the fallout. Did that match with the profile of a serial killer seeking attention? Maybe. 

At this point, does it even matter? He has his target. He can put this kid in the vicinity of three of the disappearances or murders, now. 

_ No more.  _ There’s not going to be another Rosa. He’s finishing this  _ today.  _

He gets maybe three quarters of the way there when the kid senses something off. His head turns, and he spots Takashi. Their eyes meet, and Takashi can  _ see  _ the moment this kid not just spots him, but  _ recognizes  _ him. He knows who Takashi is, what his  _ legacy  _ is, and there’s fear in his eyes. 

_ Good,  _ he thinks. _ You deserve it.  _

Most of the time, it bothers Takashi to be seen as a  _ Shirogane.  _ But this sick bastard wasn’t just killing to survive, to protect himself or feed. There was  _ intent  _ to this.  _ Cruelty.  _ This isn’t filling an ecological niche—it’s sadistic torture. If he’s scared of Takashi, well, Takashi’s not sorry in the least to see him squirm a little.

The kid does a neat turn and starts fast-walking down the road towards the nearest alley. Smart of him. Running would draw attention, and with a dozen police and forensics people still swarming the scene, it wouldn’t look good. 

Unfortunately, Takashi is in the same boat, and can’t risk forcibly shoving his way through the crowd to follow. It only takes him two minutes to get through the crowd, but it’s two minutes too many. By the time he’s got more room to move, the kid is already turning the corner to duck down a side alley.

Takashi fast-walks his way up the street to the corner, already loosening a throwing knife in his sleeve. Ideally, he’ll want to bring the kid down without killing him. He’ll need to be questioned. It won’t be easy to pull off, with the police less than thirty feet away. 

But he wasn’t the best of the Covenant’s initiates without reason. And he’s not letting this kid go.

Except, when he turns the corner, the kid is already gone. 

He glances up out of force of training. There’s no one clambering up or clinging to the fire escapes, or even the walls of the apartment complexes. No manhole covers to have disappeared into. There are a pair of side doors on either of the buildings forming the alley sides, but a quick check confirms both are securely locked, and neither lock has been tampered with. It’s a dead end—no place to go.

“Damn it,” Takashi curses. He glances around fruitlessly again, and with the same results. He’d had the mystery kid  _ right there,  _ and then he was gone. And with the head start he’s had, who knows where the kid is now. 

At least, after all this time, he can confirm one thing. His suspect is a cryptid. There’s no way a human could disappear like that so quickly.

Now if only he knew what he was dealing with.

* * *

Takashi spends most of the morning and afternoon in the area, trying to catch a glimpse of the mystery kid again. He has no such luck spotting him, however. Whoever this cryptid is, he’s smart enough to go to ground for the time being.

Takashi’s not happy about it. But on the plus side, if the kid is hiding, he’s not out killing. Hopefully, Takashi’s presence serves as a protective ward.

He only tears himself away from the area at the onset of dusk, heading back to his part of town. As much as he loathes to leave again—especially after what had happened the last time he’d left—it’s necessary. He puts up signs on his studio doors and sends out a blast email to his human clients saying his classes are cancelled tonight, due to feeling ‘sick.’ The cryptids that had been scheduled to learn from him tonight get a similar email, warning them to stay inside and keep their doors locked. 

Most importantly, now that night is coming, it’s time to grab Keith.

He times his arrival perfectly, just as the sun is starting to slip below the horizon. He snags a fresh pack of B-positive from Keith’s shelf in the fridge, dumps it in a travel mug, and heats it up to body temperature in the microwave. The scent of iron is strong as always, but to Keith, it’ll be the equivalent of bacon sizzling in the morning when first waking up.

Sure enough, Keith slinks out of his room a minute later, still in his pj’s, half asleep, and following his nose to the scent of food. He pauses when he spots Takashi, and blinks at him in confusion.

“Evening, Keith,” Takashi greets. “I’m sorry to ambush you straight out of bed, and I know you’re still shaking sun daze, but I need your help. You can eat on the way.” He caps the travel mug and shakes it gently.

Keith blinks owlishly again, and it takes him a moment to register everything Takashi says. When he does, he frowns. “What happened?”

“Rosa’s body was found this morning,” Takashi says, very softly.

But not softly enough for Keith to miss it. His frown changes to something angry, and he shows his fangs as he snarls. “Let me get dressed and I’m good to go.”

Less than five minutes later they’re out the door again. Keith sits in the passenger seat and sips his blood, while hunching as far into his drawn up sweatshirt hood and wrap-around sunglasses as possible. It’s nearly dark out by Takashi’s standards, but for Keith it’s still practically broad daylight, and not exactly comfortable. 

Takashi wouldn’t ask this of him at all if they weren’t on a time limit. But their killer isn’t constrained by the sun, and with Rosa dead, a new kidnapping is imminent unless they act fast. Keith gets it, and he doesn’t complain once.

Takashi explains everything he’s discovered since he saw Keith last while driving back to the scene of the crime. “He got away from me,” Takashi finishes, eyes narrowed. “Fast. He’s good at eluding people. But if you can track him by scent or sound…”

“I’m not a bloodhound,” Keith reminds him. 

“You’ve still got a better nose than I do,” Takashi says. “And other senses that are far superior. He can dodge humans, but let’s see if he can dodge a vampire.”

“He can’t,” Keith says, eyes narrowed. “I’ll catch him.”

By the time they get to the crime scene, the sun has set, and Keith is both a little more comfortable and a lot more alert. It’s around five thirty, and even in the dark, things are still busy. Perfect for blending in.

The crime scene is still taped off, but the police are long gone. Takashi takes Keith to it first. “She was found here,” he says, slipping under the tape and gesturing to the dumpster. “I’ve already scoured the area, but I didn’t see any evidence that I can make use of. No blood trails or anything left behind. Allura’s waiting to get the forensic reports, but who knows when that’ll be. Can you get anything better out of it?”

Keith slips his sunglasses off. His eyes catch the cast light of the street lamps, and they glow red in the gloom. “No,” he says, after a long moment. “Don’t see anything. I smell a  _ lot,  _ but nothing I can make use of. Mostly human smells. A couple cryptids, but they’re so covered over by human scents and the smell of garbage I can’t really distinguish any or how long it’s been. Nothing fresh.” He takes a deep sniff. “I  _ think  _ one’s a gorgon? Maybe? Has that dry reptile smell.”

“Could have been Melanie,” Takashi says slowly. “She’s a lesser gorgon on the police force. She probably knows about the full case already.”

Keith grunts in agreement. “Something else here kind of stinks,” he adds, after a moment. “But I can’t tell if it’s garbage or a cryptid. Sorry.”

Takashi shakes his head. “Not your fault. It was a long shot. Let’s do another patrol of the area, then. I left to pick you up...our killer may have figured it was safe to come out of hiding. Maybe we can catch him.”

Keith nods in agreement, eyes still narrowed, and they set off.

They case the area for a few hours, constantly checking for anyone suspicious. Takashi has more experience with this sort of job, but Keith’s superior night vision and senses attuned for hunting provide extra insight. Between the two of them, they can cover plenty of ground. 

Even so, it’s hours before they turn up anything useful. Most of the restaurants and shops are closed, and only the late-night establishments and some apartment buildings still have lights shining by the time they get their break. The streets are emptier and travelers are more solitary, which means less witnesses and more opportunities for a would-be kidnapper.

Maybe that’s why they get their break. Takashi turns a corner to a new block, and recognizes the mystery kid two streets up, lurking near a streetlamp. 

_ “Keith,”  _ he hisses softly, putting a hand out warily to keep the vampire still. “Look. There he is.”

Keith’s eyes widen in surprise, but then his lips peel back to reveal his fangs again in a soundless snarl. “I’ll get him,” he hisses under his breath.

“Careful,” Takashi warns. “He’s dangerous, and he knows how to hide.”

“Once I get his scent, he’s not getting away again,” Keith says, eyes narrowed.

Watching a hunting vampire is an alarming thing to witness. Even Takashi, who knows Keith is a good kid who would never intentionally harm him, finds that it triggers something deep in his monkey brain that screeches to  _ run away from the predator now now now, hurry!  _ Vampires might get their dinner from humane resources these days, but they  _ are  _ designed by evolution as apex human-hunting predators, and human instinct has never quite forgotten that. 

Fortunately, Takashi spent years training to seize command of those instincts. He stays put as Keith stalks up the street towards their killer. 

Keith is very good. He has natural athletic talent, and he’s trained it further working with the Marmora Society. If he’d been stalking a human, that human never would have stood a chance. 

But his prey isn’t a human. It’s another cryptid, and another set of senses that aren’t human. Mystery kid’s head snaps up when Keith is almost there, and he bolts. 

Keith is fast—vampires are, by nature—but so is this other kid. He manages to duck around an alley corner first, even as Keith gives chase. By the time Takashi catches up with Keith, the vampire is pacing restlessly in the alleyway, and the mystery kid is gone again.

“Did you see where he went?” Takashi asks.

“Up,” Keith says curtly. “I don’t know how he got there, but I saw him going over the roof. But I think I— _ yes.”  _ His nostrils flare wide as he breathes deeply, and he bares his teeth again. “I’ve got his scent.  _ He’s  _ the reptile smell. Sort of. I think.”

Takashi frowns at that, trying to run through his internal catalogue of cryptids. Mystery kid is something that’s human-like, or can take a human shape, but qualifies as a reptile, and can make it to a rooftop in under thirty seconds. As far as he knows, there isn’t anything like that. 

Even as he thinks, he asks, “Can you track him?”

“Yes,” Keith snarls, still confident. 

“Can you flush him out? Back this way?” Takashi asks next—low, under his breath, in case the mystery kid is still listening in. “He’s faster than me, but if he’s preoccupied with you, I can take him down.”

“You got it,” Keith says, and now there’s a hint of a smirk in his expression. “Get ready.”

Keith disappears around the corner, still breathing deeply to chase the scent. Takashi trusts him to handle his job, and slips off to the side, melding into the shadows near a dumpster. It’s a smelly, cold hiding spot, but he blends in well—well enough that a preoccupied cryptid running from a vampire shouldn’t notice him.

It takes almost five minutes, but Takashi knows better than to move. He doesn’t know exactly where the mystery kid will be coming from, but he watches all potential exits and the roof, remaining vigilant. 

And then it happens. He hears a scuffing noise, and the mystery kid’s head appears over one of the rooftops. He glances back—presumably in the direction of Keith, on the other side of the building—and then starts to descend. He doesn’t bother with any of the fire escapes. Instead, he scuttles down the side of the wall like something straight out of  _ Spider-man,  _ and hits the pavement fifteen seconds later.

If Takashi wasn’t so furious with this guy, he’d actually be impressed. He has no idea what kind of cryptid can do that, but it’s no damn wonder he’d been able to evade Takashi that morning. 

The kid doesn’t waste time, darting for the end of the alley back to the main street. He probably knows Keith is already circling around for him, and he’s anxious to get gone. Takashi can see the nervousness on his face as he bolts for the street. He probably hadn’t anticipated a vampire being hot on his heels.

The nervousness slips to startled fear when Takashi steps out in front of him, sliding a sword out from under his heavy winter jacket. “That’s enough.”

The kid curses under his breath—Spanish, from the sound of it—and whips around to bolt for the wall again. Takashi flings a throwing knife at the wall as the kid reaches for it to start climbing. The kid jerks back with a yelp, narrowly avoiding getting his fingers sliced. 

“Why the hell are you doing this?” the kid snaps. He whips around to face Takashi, probably realizing that there’s no way Takashi will let him climb, now that he’s figured out the secret.

“This has gone on long enough,” Takashi says. 

The kid looks alarmed, but then his eyes narrow. “Fine,” he growls—and to Takashi’s surprise, it really is a  _ growl _ . The kid’s shoulders are starting to hunch, and Takashi spots spines beginning to punch out through the back of his head and along his shoulders. “You’re right. I’m not gonna let you hurt those ladies anymore!”

_ Wait, what?  _

Before Takashi can process that unexpected turn of events, the mystery kid leaps at him. When he leaves the ground, he’s still vaguely humanoid. When he lands, there’s nothing human about him. He looks like a cross between a bony dog and an enormous lizard, covered in thick spines all down his back. All four paws have hooked, reptilian claws, and his large canine-like mouth is full of serrated teeth. 

Now, and only now, does he recognize the beast.  _ Chupacabra!  _

By then, the mystery kid is on him. He lets out a furious snarling noise and snaps his toothy jaws at Takashi as he leaps again. Takashi hurls himself to the side, narrowly dodging as he throws himself into a safety roll and nearly crashes into the nearest alley wall. He braces his leg against it to absorb his momentum and whips around quickly, sword held defensively.

The chupacabra skids to a halt before he slides out into the road, and manages to spin around quickly. His tail lashes as his head whips back and forth, searching for Takashi. Once he spots him, he starts to pace forward again.

“Wait,” Takashi says, stowing the sword away and hastily holding up his hands in a gesture of ‘unarmed.’ Something’s not right here. He doesn’t want to be forced to do something he’ll regret, defending himself. “Hold up. There’s a misunderstanding. I don’t want to hurt you—”

The chupacabra doesn’t seem to believe it. With another snarl, he hurls himself at Takashi again, jaws wide—

—and Keith shoulder-checks him bodily in the side, smashing him hard into the wall. 

“ _ Don’t  _ hurt Takashi,” he snarls, red eyes gleaming.

The chupacabra shrieks indignantly, and whips its head around shockingly fast to snap at Keith’s face. But Keith has his own preternatural swiftness, and manages to pull his head out of the way. The chupacabra thrashes next, but Keith manages to get his arms around the creature’s bony, spiny shoulders, and smashes him into the grimy pavement, pinning him there. 

The chupacabra yowls again. He scrabbles madly with all four paws for purchase, whips with his tail, snaps with his jaws, and even tries to gouge with the spines all along its back and head. But although Keith looks like a scrawny teenager, he’s much,  _ much  _ stronger than he appears. Despite the creature’s thrashing, and the few cuts his spines slice into Keith’s skin, the vampire holds him down gamely. 

“Woah!” Takashi says, circling around to the chupacabra’s head. He stays just out of reach of the snapping jaws and whipping spines, but makes sure he can make eye contact. “Woah, buddy, hold up, calm down. Listen. We don’t want to hurt you. Just relax.”

The chupacabra makes another spine-chilling shriek of disagreement. He doesn’t stop thrashing.

“Can you talk in that form?” Takashi asks. “It’d be easier if we could talk with you, please—I’m serious, buddy, we’re not trying to hurt you. We’re after the same guy you are.”

The chupacabra finally stops yowling and thrashing, but the low growl and baleful glare is enough to make his feelings on the matter abundantly clear, even if he can’t speak. He twists his head to glare at Keith, and then looks back to Takashi, as if to say,  _ a little help, please?  _

“How about a compromise,” Takashi says. “Keith will let go and let you up, as long as you don’t run. Okay? I swear, we aren’t trying to hurt you. If you’re after the same guy as us, then I’d actually like your help.”

The chupacabra makes a resigned snorting noise, but after a moment affects an awkward nod with his spine-covered head. 

“Alright. Thank you. Keith—let him go.”

Keith gives him an incredulous look. “Seriously? He tried to kill you.”

_ “Keith,”  _ Takashi says sternly. “We made a deal. Let him go.”

Keith grumbles, but after a moment, loosens his restraining hold on the chupacabra.

The chupacabra moves immediately, scrambling away from Keith at the same time that he shifts back into his humanoid form. “Stupid human-drinker,” he mutters, glaring balefully at Keith and rubbing his shoulders, as though they’re sore. “What are you, some kind of traitor? Why’re you working with a  _ Shirogane?  _ Are you crazy? They  _ kill  _ people like us! And you’re  _ helping  _ him!”

Keith bares his fangs in a snarl. “Takashi’s not like them. And I’m not a traitor.  _ You’re  _ the one killing women—”

“I am  _ not!”  _ the chupacabra snaps back. “ _ You  _ guys are, I’ve been trying to—”

_ “Enough!”  _ Takashi snaps. 

He’s actually impressed to find that works. Both the mystery kid and Keith click their jaws shut. They continue to glare at each other, but they don’t argue. 

“Alright,” Takashi says. “First things first. My name is Takashi. This is Keith. Can I ask your name?”

The kid gives him a deeply suspicious look, but after a moment, offers, “Lance.”

“Okay, Lance,” Takashi says. “That fight made quite a bit of noise. We are still near a crime scene, which means somebody has almost certainly called 911 by now, and police are probably on their way. I suggest we take this conversation somewhere safer, and try to figure out our next options.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Lance says, incredulous. “I know better than to walk off with a Shirogane. Do I look stupid to you?”

“A little,” Keith answers, with a sour expression on his face.

Lance bristles—almost literally, as his spines start to appear again—and snaps, “Listen, people-drinker, I didn’t ask for your opinion, so—”

“It will be a public setting,” Takashi interrupts, before they can get started again. “There’s a late night coffee shop not too far from here. Neither side can do anything dangerous out in the open until we get the measure of each other. Fair?”

Lance glances between the two. After a moment, he nods. “Fine.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they’re settled in the late-night coffee shop, at a quiet table off in the corner. Lance and Takashi sit across from each other, carefully distant. Takashi sends Keith to the counter to get coffee; Lance is obviously nervous and on edge, and it’s already clear that Keith is only exacerbating things. Until the kid is more comfortable, it’s better to keep them apart.

“Alright, Lance,” Takashi says, keeping his movements as unthreatening as possible, his hands visible on the table, and his voice friendly. “I have to admit, you threw me for a loop for a while. I wasn’t sure how you were evading me. I didn’t know chupacabra could pull a Spider-man.”

Lance snorts. “Yeah, well. It’s not exactly information we like to share. The more the Covenant knows about us, the more of us you can kill.” 

He’s not wrong. And chupacabra were famously undocumented to begin with. They had only recently been discovered in the last few decades, and the Covenant still didn’t know a lot about them. Takashi had added a little more to his own personal dossiers, but only thanks to tidbits and details he’d picked up in Garrison’s cryptid community. 

What he does know is still pretty sparse. Chupacabra are a species of therianthrope, a shape-shifting type of cryptid that has a humanoid form and a more animalistic form they can transform between at will. That was how they had remained undetected for so long to begin with. If their lizard-dog form was spotted by a human, they could simply change back to a humanoid shape and disappear into a crowd, and no one would know the difference. 

Beyond that, Takashi only knows that it’s unclear if they classify as a reptile or a mammal—the closest he’s been able to determine is a ‘mammal-like reptile’ that has characteristics from both classes—and that like Keith, they live on an all-liquid diet. In the case of the chupacabra, though, the insides they prefer are varieties of animal blood, ranging from livestock or large deer to smaller pigeons and rats. 

And apparently they can also wall-climb with shocking ease and speed. Takashi mentally reminds himself to add that to the dossier later. He wonders if it extends to hanging from ceilings. Maybe, if he can get Lance to calm down, he can eventually ask.

“Fair enough,” is all Takashi says. “And to be clear, I’m  _ ex _ -Covenant.”

Lance sneers. “What, they just let you leave?”

“No,” Takashi says. “I ran away. I didn’t like what they were doing. So I left, came here to America, and started trying to use what I know to do the right thing.”

Lance snorts, disbelieving. “Sure thing, Shirogane.”

“It’s Takashi, please,” he says, patiently. 

“Fine. So, what, you only kill people who ‘deserve’ it? Because I definitely don’t deserve it, and you threw a knife at me.” 

“That was a misunderstanding,” Takashi says. “And I’m sorry for that. I don’t like to kill unless I have to, but I  _ do  _ make it my job to make sure this city stays under Covenant radar. Which, tonight, includes tracking down this killer that has already kidnapped and murdered four people.”

Lance’s suspicion shifts into something more solemn and morose. “Yeah. That, I get.”

“You want to tell me what you were doing?” Takashi asks patiently. 

“Why should I?” Lance asks, but he’s still frowning. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?  _ You  _ could be the killer, and you’re just trying to get rid of me for getting in the way.” 

“He’s not.” 

Keith is back, once again wearing his wrap-around sunglasses to hide his eye color around humans. Lance had already given him crap for that, and Keith’s fists had been clenching warningly; Takashi had been forced to give them both stern looks. That was the catalyst for sending Keith to go get coffee in the first place.

Thankfully, nobody else seems to care that Keith’s wearing shades at night. He sits down at the end of the table, holding a small cardboard cup-holder tray, and wordlessly divvies out three coffees. He also shoves a bagel in front of Takashi unceremoniously. Takashi shakes his head in fond exasperation.

Lance gives the coffee cup in front of him an incredulous look, before staring at Keith with long-suffering irritation. “C’mon, people-drinker, you know we can’t touch this stuff. Unless you’ve figured out how to swill this garbage. I know I haven’t. It stinks.” 

“It’s just for blending in,” Takashi cuts in quickly, before Keith can retaliate and things get out of hand. “Just hold it in your hand and pretend to drink from it every once and a while. It looks less suspicious.” 

Lance raises an eyebrow, and gives Keith another incredulous look. “Is he serious?”

In answer, Keith merely fakes a very deliberate swig of coffee, while glaring balefully through his sunglasses at Lance the whole time. The challenge seems to be all Lance needs, since he bristles—though thankfully, this time, not literally—and awkwardly does the same. 

“He’s not the killer,” Keith repeats, once Takashi actually takes his own first sip of coffee, savoring the heat and the sweet caffeination. “You know the rumors about Shiroganes?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Well, have you heard the rumors around  _ here?”  _ Keith presses. “You’ve been here for a couple weeks at least. You  _ have  _ to have heard about the Shirogane working with House Altea. Even if people don’t like him, there’s enough rumors flying around to confirm he’s not like the others.”

Lance bites his lip, for the first time looking unsure. “I...guess,” he says, after a slow moment. “I didn’t believe them. Who gets a Shirogane on a leash? But…”

“He could’ve killed you, and he didn’t,” Keith points out. 

_ “You  _ tried to though,” Lance mutters, a little sullenly.

“I didn’t. Anyway, you’d have deserved it. You attacked to kill too.”

“You were chasing me! He trapped me!”

“You started it by running!”

“I’m not gonna just  _ stand there  _ when a Covenant guy is coming after me with murder in his eyes—”

_ “Enough,”  _ Takashi says, and once again, to his surprise, they both shut up. “Look, Lance. I’m really, genuinely not interested in hurting you, okay? We were under the impression that  _ you  _ were the killer. 

“I know,” he adds, holding up his hand to forestall Lance’s indignant outburst, “—I understand now that you weren’t responsible. But we  _ can  _ place you at several of the crime scenes, buddy. You’re in a few surveillance photos. You were at Rosa’s crime scene today, and at her office yesterday. You’re  _ still  _ lurking in the area the killer operates in. It doesn’t exactly look good. But I promise—if you tell me what’s going on, I’ll do what I can to help you out. And I  _ will  _ catch the real killer.”

Lance bites his lip. The look he gives Takashi is still suspicious, but more thoughtful than before. Finally, he says slowly, “You’re really serious. You really want to take this guy down.”

“Yes.”

“Even if he’s human?” Lance challenges.

“Even if,” Takashi agrees. “I don’t care what species is doing this. Four women are dead because of them. Before that, they were tortured. It’s wrong.”

Lance taps his fingers on the table nervously for a moment. Both his hands wrap around the coffee cup in front of him. The warmth seems to give him comfort, even if he can’t drink it. After a moment he says, “Okay. Okay, fine. I’ll work with you guys. Whoever’s doing this, they need to pay. If that means working with Covenant—”

“— _ ex- _ Covenant,” Takashi reminds, with tired patience. 

“—then I’ll do it.” Lance pauses. “Um. I don’t really know where to start, though.”

“Start from the beginning,” Takashi suggests. “What made you get involved in all this?”

“Um. I knew one of the girls. Makka. The harpy lady.” Lance shrugs. “She works...um. Worked, at that club a couple blocks over. The swanky one that’s cryptid friendly? She was one of the bartenders.” 

Takashi raises an eyebrow. “You’re a little young for that place, aren’t you?”

Lance rolls his eyes. “You and every bouncer there agree,” he says. “So did Makka. She didn’t like my pickup lines much either.” He pouts a little. “But she was still nice enough to let me sleep in the kitchen sometimes when I couldn’t find a place to stay, so she was cool. I liked her. She kind of reminded me of my big sister.” 

Takashi frowns. “Wait. You’re homeless?”

_ “Transient,”  _ Lance corrects, a little testily. “I’m not from this city. I’ve been moving around a lot for the past year or so. There’s usually people in the community willing to let me crash in a back room or point out a safe space in exchange for a little work. Makka didn’t even make me wash dishes or mop the floors, so I was staying there a lot while I was here.” 

He doesn’t elaborate on why he’s in the city. For now, Takashi doesn’t push. “Do you have safe places to stay now?”

“I thought we were finding a killer, not putting  _ me  _ on trial,” Lance mutters.

Takashi sighs. “Fine. The case is more pressing, but we’ll come back to this later. I do have connections that can help you, if you need it.” 

Lance merely shrugs. 

“Alright. So you knew Makka. And that explains why we found you in surveillance footage around the club,” Takashi says. “And then what? She died?”

Lance swallows. “Yes,” he whispers softly. “She disappeared first. Didn’t call into work sick or anything. She was real good at her job, really liked it, always showed up on time. Her husband didn’t know where she went either. The call went up for the cryptids in the area to look for her. I helped, of course. But then…”

“They found the body,” Takashi finishes, when Lance doesn’t continue.

Lance’s expression is subdued now. “I might have been one of the last people to talk to her,” he says softly. “I keep wondering if maybe, if I’d done something different, I could’ve saved her. If I, I don’t know, walked her home or something. I didn’t think anything of it. Harpies are tough, y’know? And she could fly. Obviously. What’s a chupacabra gonna do? She locked up for the night and left me in the kitchen to snooze, and that’s the last time I ever saw her.” 

Lance shakes his head. “It was...it was sad. It sucked. She wasn’t really family, but she was a nice person. She didn’t deserve that. But then...that other girl disappeared. The wadjet.”

“Did you know her?” Takashi asks.

Lance shakes his head. “No. But the story sounded the same, y’know? Wadjets are  _ scary.  _ How does anybody make a cobra-lady just disappear? It had to be the same thing. It  _ had  _ to be. And I figured...I was so close last time, maybe I could get lucky, find  _ something… _ ” Lance shakes his head. “But she died, too. I didn’t get there in time, either.”

“And the same with the dragon princess?”

Lance nods. “Soon as I heard a girl disappeared, I spent my time looking. I’ve been wandering around this whole area where the killer keeps hunting, trying to spot the guy. That was how I found her body so fast, at the same time the cryptid cops did. And when the human girl got nabbed...I was running out of options. I started looking around her office, her home, everything. Trying to case the place, see if the killer came back, or if I could catch a familiar scent, or something…” He shrugs. 

“I saw you outside Rosa’s office,” Takashi says. 

“Yeah. I saw you too.” Lance grumbles. “You scared the hell out of me. But I figured my thinking finally worked out. The killer came back. And of  _ course  _ it was Covenant. Covenant wouldn’t have a problem murdering cryptid girls, would they? And then you kept finding me all over, and I was scared, because if you could do that to them, you could do that to  _ me.  _ But I was the only one that knew, so when you trapped me, I figured I had to try and take you down.”

“That was very brave of you,” Takashi says. 

Lance brightens a little. He obviously enjoys praise, even from an ex-Covenant agent he’s suspicious of.

“It was also very stupid,” Takashi continues, and the kid’s expression deflates. “If I had been an actual Covenant agent, you understand you would have been dead, right?”

“I could’ve taken you,” Lance says, a little stiffly. “You had to have  _ him  _ come in and rescue you.” He nods to Keith. 

“He wasn’t  _ trying  _ to fight you,” Keith snaps back. “Didn’t you hear him? He told you he wanted to talk. If he’d been trying to kill you, you wouldn’t have made that first leap. He’d have shot you with the gun he’s hiding in that coat.”

Lance’s eyes widen in alarm. “You have a—”

_ “Lance,”  _ Takashi hisses warningly. Screeching about firearms in a public area is a sure-fire way to start a panic, and possibly get arrested. “Relax. The answer is yes, but no, I don’t use it unless I intend to kill, and certainly not on you.”

Lance still looks dumbfounded at the notion that he’d charged someone who’d been fully armed. 

“This is what I’m talking about, buddy,” Takashi says, in a more gentle tone. “You’re not trained for this. You’ve got a lot of spirit, and I think it’s very noble of you to want to help. But this isn’t about being a hero. This could have gone very badly. If you’d come across the actual killer…”

Lance swallows a little. 

“Alright,” Takashi says. “Well, what’s done is done. For now, you’re safe as long as you’re around me. That means  _ from  _ me, as well as anything that tries to attack while you’re around me. Okay?”

“Uh. Right.” 

“Okay. Now. I know  _ how  _ you got involved in all of this,” Takashi says. “Do you know anything that could help us find who really did this? Anything at all?”

Lance shrugs uncomfortably. “I don’t know. Like I said, I thought it was you. I guess I didn’t do a very good job of putting the clues together.”

“You might have seen or sensed something without realizing it,” Takashi says. “Let’s try rethinking the first disappearance, with Makka. Can you tell me more about that night? Anything you remember.”

“Um.” Lance closes his eyes and thinks hard, clutching his coffee cup. “Well, it was one of Makka’s work nights, obviously. Her shift started at eight pm. So I showed up a little after that so she’d let me in the back door and I could snooze in the kitchen.”

“At eight at night?” Keith asks, incredulous. 

“Hey,  _ some  _ of us aren’t nocturnal,” Lance snaps, cracking his eyes open to glare at Keith. “And I was tired after a long day of—”

He snaps his mouth shut abruptly, and gives Takashi a nervous look out of the corner of his eye. 

Takashi ignores it for now. He doubts Lance could have been up to anything endangering others at this point, and it’s not his business to pry. “Okay, so you turned in for the night?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. “Makka let me in. She seemed totally fine. Even chatted with me for a few minutes since there weren’t a lot of people there yet. Then she left to get back to work at the front and I curled up in the corner for a rest.”

“So you slept until she left?”

“Well, sort of. ‘Dozed,’ more like. See, the kitchen’s right behind the bar, and the door’s kinda flimsy, and I’ve got real good hearing. Especially in my  _ other  _ form.” He gives Takashi a pointed look. “So I can hear a lot of stuff that goes on in the bar area. Makes it kind of hard to really  _ sleep  _ sleep since it’s kind of loud, but it’s still a nice safe place to curl up to rest. Plus it’s warm. And all the activity kind of reminds me of home.”

Lance falters at that last part. There’s a far-away look in his eyes. Takashi’s got an uncomfortable feeling there’s something going on with this kid that he doesn’t want to talk about, but he still doesn’t push. He can find a way to help Lance, but later. 

“So you were listening in on the bar activity,” Takashi summarizes.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “It’s fun listening to the people. And listening to Makka deal with them. Or….how she used to deal with them, I guess. Lots of people would hit on her, it was funny to listen to her make’em back off. She was married, so she was never interested.” He frowns. “Well,  _ mostly  _ never interested.” 

Takashi raises an eyebrow at that.

Lance remembers to pretend to drink again, using the time to collect his thoughts. “Now that I think about it, the night she disappeared, there was one guy she seemed kinda into. Actually, it sounded like a  _ lot  _ of ladies were into him, but Makka didn’t shut him down right away like usual. I don’t know  _ why.  _ His flirting wasn’t  _ that  _ great,” he mutters, a little sullenly. “I’m  _ way  _ better. And he reeked.” 

“How could you tell if you were in another room?” Keith says, frowning. 

Lance shrugs. “I only smelled that stink when he started talking, and it went away a little after they stopped. Plus I could smell it on Makka later, so he must’ve touched her arm or something.”

Takashi frowns. There’s an uncomfortable thought digging at the back of his mind now, but he really hopes he’s wrong. “Lance—how did Makka seem when she left? You said you saw her before she left, right?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. “After all the patrons left Makka was always the one to lock up for the night. I stopped dozing long enough to say goodbye. She seemed…” He pauses to consider, before finally choosing, “Dreamy.”

“Dreamy?”

“Yeah. Y’know, like heads-in-the-clouds happy? Not  _ high  _ exactly, though. I figured she was tired. Or maybe looking forward to something with her family. But now that I think about it…” He shrugs. “Dreamy.”

“Was that normal for her?”

“Naw. Makka’s one of those ladies that’s always really practical. No nonsense. But friendly. Not like that, though.”

He’d thought as much. “Okay,” Takashi says. “Now I want you to think very hard on this next one, Lance. Take your time if you need to. Do you remember smelling that bad scent at any other point when you investigated the other disappearances and deaths?”

Lance blinks at him. “What?”

“Just answer the question,” Takashi says patiently. “I don’t want to say anything else and color your memories. Take all the time you need.”

Lance frowns at that, but closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. His nostrils flare, like he’s trying to scent for the same rank smell now.

“Maybe,” he says finally, after nearly two minutes. “Maybe, I...I wasn’t looking for it, and all the places since were really smelly too. But...I think I remember it for the dragon princess. And the human girl. Actually, now that I think about it, I  _ definitely  _ remember it for the human girl. That’s still fresh in my memory. I thought I was smelling the garbage from the dumpster she was in, but...yeah.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Takashi breathes, rising to his feet. “I think I know what we’re dealing with. And if I’m right, we have to move. Fast.”


	8. Chupacabra chupacabra: Part Three

“We can get hurt anywhere. It’s better to get hurt doing something you love, or helping someone you love, than to get hurt because the world isn’t fair.”  
—Fern Conway, _That Ain’t Witchcraft_

**_The parking garage of the modern Garrison City castle, aka Allura Altea’s penthouse_ **

Just over half an hour later, Takashi pulls his car into the private parking in Allura’s building. He’d broken half a dozen traffic laws to get to his apartment fast enough to pick up a few supplies before coming here, but he’d done it in record time. He’s out of the car immediately, rushing for the door with Keith and Lance hot on his heels.

Lance mutters under his breath as he chases after Takashi. “I still don’t see why I had to come with you,” he grouses. “I could’ve stayed back there to keep watch for this guy.”

“We’ve been over this,” Takashi reminds him for the fifth time. “First, you’re not trained, and second, you’re not prepared to deal with this type of cryptid. Not until I can get us all equipped.”

“Besides,” Keith adds, “You’re currently on the ‘most wanted’ list in the cryptid community. _Everyone_ thinks you’re the killer right now. We didn’t kill you, but other cryptids might.”

Even having heard the argument almost half a dozen times now, Lance still pales at the thought of an angry bugbear or bogeyman out for blood and vengeance to protect their community. “That’s not _my_ fault,” he mutters, sullen.

“Then you shouldn’t have been sneaking around murder scenes,” Keith snipes back.

Lance looks ready to argue, so Takashi says curtly, “Relax, Lance. You just have to stick with us until this is over, and I can get the search called off of you. Then you’re free to go. Okay?” 

Lance sighs, but nods. “Right.”

Takashi pushes them through security at record speed. There’s more guards than usual, and they all regard Lance with extreme suspicion, hands on weapons—or natural weapons at the ready. It’s only thanks to Takashi’s urgent prodding, and insistence that they need to move to catch the real killer, that security finally lets him through at all. But they do eventually get into the elevator leading to Allura’s suite, and before long they’re at her foyer.

Coran is already waiting, and most notably, he has a firearm close at hand. “Security informed me the suspect was on his way up with you—”

“It’s a misunderstanding, Coran,” Takashi says patiently, as Lance eyes the human—and the gun—warily. “I need to talk to you and Allura about—”

“ _You!”_

Allura herself comes striding down the hall. It’s not wide enough for her to bristle her full wingspan in a threat display, but she does her best to threaten anyway, feathers flaring angrily and knocking several paintings and photographs from their mounts. Her taloned eagle feet are normally graceful, but now they clack ominously on the tiled flooring as she stalks forward. She snatches a staff from one of the ornamental mountings against the wall as she moves, and spins it into a ready stance under one arm as she charges straight for Lance. “How _dare_ you show your face here, you vile—”

Lance’s expression goes from surprised to awed to flirtatious to terrified in the span of ten seconds. What had probably been intended to be a (most likely) terrible pick up line turns into a frightened squeak as he hastily backpedals into the elevator. Spines are already beginning to burst along the back of his head and shoulders. “Wait—”

Takashi hastily puts himself between the two, holding his hands up to both show he’s unarmed and block the way. “Woah! Allura, calm down.”

Allura does her best to get around him, glaring hatefully over Takashi’s shoulders at the chupacabra in the elevator. “How _dare_ you bring that _murderer_ into _my_ home—”

“Allura! Allura, calm _down,”_ Takashi says, keeping his voice as patient and as calm as possible. “There’s been a misunderstanding. This is Lance. He isn’t the killer, but he has been looking for him, and he may be the key to stopping them.”

“And you believe that?” Allura asks. She steps back, finally lowering the staff, but her expression is anything but trustful.

“Would I put my back to him if I didn’t?” Takashi asks. 

Allura hesitates.

“Look, I know it’s hard to swallow, but I think his story checks out,” Takashi says. “At least for this. More importantly, I think I know what _is_ doing this. And if I’m right, we have to move fast, before we lose another victim.” 

Allura takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes once. After a moment she withdraws completely, curling her wings closer to her body again in their natural fold, and places the staff back on its rack. “I will trust you, Takashi,” she finally declares, after a moment.

Glancing over Takashi’s shoulder, she adds curtly, “I apologize. We had reason to believe you the killer. These past few days have been...difficult.”

“Uh, no problem,” Lance says. “I get it. Sorry about, uh, being suspicious on accident.”

Allura snorts. She’s still a little icy, but at least she’s not hellbent on killing Lance anymore. Takashi finally lowers his arms and steps aside. 

“The briefing room?” Allura asks.

“Yes,” Takashi says. “I’ll need the table to start assembling the charms.”

“Very well.” Out loud, she says, “You may come out. Please treat our guest with respect.” 

_“HAIL!”_ a chorus of a hundred tiny voices cheer. The Aeslin mice swarm out of seemingly nowhere to fill the halls. “HAIL, HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS! HAIL, HIGH PRIEST OF UNDYING LOYALTY! HAIL, THERIANTHROPE, NOBLE GUEST OF THE LION GODDESS!”

“Hey guys,” Takashi says, with a quick wave. “We need to move, I’ll bring an offering later when this is all over for Witness.”

“HAIL!” The mice cheer. One of the blue-streaked mice adds, “The High Priest of Those who Walk Out Of The Darkness possesses Word that is Bond! He will grant Offerings! We will Witness!” 

“Great,” Takashi says. He’s already following after Allura, but he’s careful to step around the little creatures, which dutifully swarm out of the way of his boots. 

Keith picks his way through the crowd with more or less the same confidence, even if his lips are pressed together at the high pitched squealing of the mice. Their voices are a little...intense for someone with hearing as good as Keith’s. It’s why he generally avoids visiting Allura’s penthouse if he can help it.

Lance doesn’t move a muscle from his spot by the elevator, staring at the mice. “Um?” he yelps, after a moment, a noise of high pitched alarm. “There are...the mice talk? Am I going crazy? They _talk?_ They know who... _what_ I am? And also... _talking?_ Did I mention the part when they talk?”

“Aeslin mice,” Takashi calls over his shoulder. “Incidentally, that means none of them are snacks, got it? C’mon, Lance, we need to _move,_ there are lives on the line.”

“Aeslin mice are _real?_ I thought they were a myth!”

“Lance! Move!”

“Right! Right, I’m on it.” He follows after the others, doing his best to not step on the mice that part beneath his footsteps. “No worries, talking mice. I like my dinner of the non-talking mice variety. No offense.”

“None is Taken, Noble Guest of the Lion Goddess!” one of the mice chirrups at his feet. 

“This is so weird,” Lance says, bewildered, as he catches up to Takashi and Keith. Then he frowns. “Hey. Wait. How come you guys get to be ‘high priests’ and I’m just a ‘noble guest’ ?”

“Trust me,” Keith grumbles, “You don’t want to be a high priest.”

“It’s a long story, Lance,” Takashi says, as they round the corner into the briefing room. Allura is already clearing off a section of the table, and Takashi immediately deposits the bag he’d picked up from his apartment on it, unpacking plastic tupperware containers of reagents and a few small glass bottles, carefully wrapped in cloth. “I’ll explain another day. For now we have lives to save.”

“Yes,” Allura agrees, crouching to collect the four Witness Aeslin to deposit them on the table. “You believe you know the killer? The _real_ killer?” She glances at Lance for a moment.

“I think so. I’m almost positive we’re dealing with a Lilu. Specifically, an incubus.” To the four mice now on the table, he adds, “Can you please divide these into five piles of ten each?” and pushes a plastic tupperware of howlite stones towards them. The creatures set to work with a will, eagerly sorting through the stones as Takashi removes some cloth scraps from a container and begins setting them out. 

Allura is incredulous at that. “An incubus?” 

“It tracks,” Takashi says, dabbing a little bit of unicorn water onto each of the cloth scraps, and then moving on to shredding aconite. “All the victims are women that had been dating or married to men. Lance here remembers a strong scent when one was making an advance on the first victim, and he remembers she seemed uncharacteristically interested in that advance. The scent was also around when some of the other bodies were discovered. Lilu, male and female, exude pheromones that usually inspire attraction in anyone attracted to their gender, barring some exceptions or built up resistances.” 

“I’ve never met an incubus before,” Lance says slowly, frowning. “I wouldn’t know what those pheromones smell like. I still have a hard time believing anybody would fall for somebody who reeks like that, though.”

“That’s because you’re thinking like a chupacabra,” Takashi says, as he places the shredded aconite in each of the cloth scraps he’d prepared. “To humans, it smells more floral, and only in very concentrated quantities. The same rule applies to most other mammals known to be cross-fertile with incubi or succubi, which are _usually_ their targets for a liaison. I doubt a human would consciously notice the smell at all.” 

“But this guy wasn’t targeting mammals,” Keith says slowly. “The first was a bird lady. The next two were reptiles. Only the human fits that. None of them should have been affected, right?”

“That’s why I think something else is going on here,” Takashi says quietly. He accepts the divided pebbles with a nod of thanks to the mice, and splits them up into the cloth scraps, before tying off the charm bags neatly to contain their contents. “This guy is trying to be noticed...or he’s trying to prove something. The way his victims disappear and reappear in increasingly more noticeable ways almost feels like he’s testing the waters. His kills are getting more outgoing, more difficult. But he’s definitely having an affect on people he shouldn’t be able to. Lance’s witness account for Makka proves it.”

“It’s worse than that,” Allura whispers, suddenly looking both furious and sick to her stomach. “Male lilu—incubui—are natural empaths. And his victims were tormented before they died. Many incubui can be troublemakers due to their...interests...but those interests generally don’t extend to torture.”

“So this one’s _crazy,”_ Lance summarizes angrily. “He likes hurting people. For _fun.”_

“And his powers are way stronger than they should be,” Keith adds, also scowling. “Why?”

“We can figure out the why later, after we get him,” Takashi says. “For now, here.” He finishes stringing the charm bags on sturdy cords, and tosses one to every humanoid in the room, including Coran back by the door. “These are anti-incubus charms. Until we bag this guy, everyone wears one at all times. They’ll let you keep control of your awareness.” 

Lance frowns. “His powers didn’t work on me before. He stinks, and so does this.” Based on the way Keith’s lip curls distastefully, showing one fang, he agrees.

“He also wasn’t targeting you specifically,” Takashi notes. 

Lance still looks skeptical. 

Takashi gets it, but he has no time for argument. “Listen. I don’t care if you’re a different species, if you’re not a mammal, what gender you’re interested in, if you _think_ his powers won’t work on you, or how much the charm stinks. We already _know_ these powers are working on people they shouldn’t, and when those people are affected, they lose control, and they die. Period. We don’t know how far that extends. So until he’s neutralized or dead, every single one of us carries one of these charms at all times, or you stay here in the penthouse on lockdown. Do I make myself _absolutely_ clear?”

All of them stare at him for a moment. After a long few seconds of tense silence, one of the witness mice finally cheers, “HAIL! The High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness hath Spoken! Lo, his wise word is now Law!” 

That breaks the tension, and Lance says sheepishly, “Uh, right then. What the mice said.” The others nod in agreement, and loop the charms around their necks. 

“Good,” Takashi says, putting his own on, and securing it underneath his vest. “Now we’ve got our protection, so the next step is to find this bastard, _before_ he takes another victim.”

“That is easily remedied,” Allura says, raising her chin high. “We will simply control the situation, and ensure he chooses a victim of our own design.” 

It’s her turn to be stared at. After a moment, Coran shouts, “Absolutely _not,_ miss! I’d rather you stay here. Your father would be _furious—”_

“My father would say it is our duty to protect this city,” Allura counters sharply. “I can do no less than to make myself a part of the fight. This is my mission just as much as anyone else’s.” 

“But _miss—”_

“No, Coran.” Allura turns to stare Takashi in the eye. “Think about it. You yourself said I would make a very enticing target. If this murderer comes after me, he will not go after a victim we cannot know about or protect until it is too late. And if we know where he will be, we can set a trap.”

Everyone looks between Takashi and Allura nervously. The mice skitter forward to the edge of the table with their little hands clasped, awaiting the verdict that will no doubt go down into the annals of Aeslin mice religious rites. 

And Takashi…

He’s not really _fond_ of the idea of putting Allura in danger. He’s not fond of putting _any_ of them in danger, but at least Coran is ex-military, and Keith and Lance are both natural apex predators capable of doing a lot of damage if they wanted to. 

But caladrius don’t have much in the way of natural defenses, and they aren’t predators. Allura is more of a fighter than most, but in the cold she’ll be much weaker than usual. And if he’s deduced wrong on the enemy, or if there _is_ something special going on with his powers and Takashi’s charms don’t work...he’s handing Allura over to a known torturer and murderer.

But she is right, too. They’re never going to get this guy if they don’t control the situation. She’s willing to play the victim, but she’ll be more prepared than any of the others, and she isn’t as helpless as she might look. And more importantly, she’s brave, and she’s fearless, and she’s willing to do anything to protect her city.

“Fine,” he says. “You’re in. But _only_ if we play this according to plan. I’m not losing anybody over this guy.”

Allura nods, fiercely determined. “Of course. I have no interest in being a true victim.”

The mice cheer, leap up and down, and wave their minute staves, overcome by a wave of religious ecstasy. “HAIL! HAIL THE LION GODDESS! REJOICE, FOR THE LION GODDESS COMES TO PROTECT! HAIL!” 

Keith visibly winces at their high-pitched shrieks of delight. So does Lance.

“Right,” Takashi says. “Everyone circle up. We need a plan to bring this guy down, and we need to bag him _tonight.”_

* * *

They’re pushing two AM by the time they make it back to the streets their murderer has been taking his victims from.

Takashi can only hope they moved fast enough. During their trap planning, Allura had tasked several of the Aeslin mice with monitoring her usual channels, in case news came of a new kidnapping. As far as they know, nobody—human or crypid—has gone missing from that area in the past few hours. 

Hopefully, that means their killer is out there, stalking the streets and waiting for another victim. One they’re about to put right out in front of him. One he won’t be able to resist, despite other potential choices. 

The fabled ‘princess’ of Garrison City, Allura Altea.

Allura is bundled up in the thickest winter jacket she has, specially designed to hide her wings, and long thick skirts that keep her warm and hide her taloned feet. Even so, it’s a bitter cold November night, and Takashi can see her shivering from his hiding place in a side alley. He hopes this doesn’t take too long, and that their killer is out there hunting even now. Allura can’t handle these kinds of temperatures for too long, not as an avid. 

The bars and clubs are closing by now, and since it’s the most likely place for a hunter to get his victims at this time of night, that’s where they set up shop. They choose a street close enough to a bar that Allura will definitely be spotted by a hunter, but far enough that drunk humans shuffling home won’t pay her attention. Allura’s nature is fairly well hidden by her jacket and skirts, but if she has to run, she’ll need her wings. They don’t need that hitting the news. 

Allura strides down the street at a slow pace, affecting unease and wariness at the dark shadows around her and sticking to the cast light of the street lamps, like a real potential victim might. Her neck burrows down into the thick fluffy collar of her jacket and her shoulders are hunched. 

It makes her look worried, but it also serves to hide the Aeslin mouse sitting on her shoulder. Takashi had made this a requirement for Allura to participate in the trap. In the event that they were hoodwinked somehow and she _was_ captured, one of her Aeslin priests would stay with her until she was taken to wherever the killer operated out of, and then come back to find Takashi and the others. The mouse had been specially chosen, knowing the deadliness of the task, and had been honored to accompany his Goddess to serve her in her moment of need.

Takashi hopes it doesn’t come to that. It will still help them find the killer, but it probably won’t save Allura. He can’t let that happen.

Allura meanders down the street, past Takashi, and the others farther down. All of them are spread out in various hiding places, providing full coverage in the event the killer comes from any direction. 

But nobody shows by the time Allura hits the end of the street. So, as discussed, she steps into a twenty-four hour convenience store, and wastes several minutes browsing magazines and snacks. She buys a few meaningless items, always staying within viewable distance of the store’s windows, so any observer on the outside can see her. It lets Takashi keep an eye on her.

It also lets her potential attacker find her.

After wasting almost exactly ten minutes, she exits the building and heads back up the street towards a residential area, as though heading home. Takashi follows carefully, staying concealed in the shadows. He can just barely track Coran doing so as well on the other side of the street. Lance is following from the rooftops, since it’s easiest for him to go up and down. Of Keith, Takashi sees no sign, but that’s hardly surprising. Keith is a vampire—he’s not supposed to be seen by human eyes when he’s hunting in the dark. Takashi trusts that he’s around somewhere, though.

Allura makes it nearly to the end of the second street when someone approaches her.

Takashi focuses immediately on the potential attacker, but although he has his hands on his weapons, he doesn’t use them just yet. He has to be sure this is the killer first. They can’t afford to make further mistakes on this case.

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing out here at this time of night?” the newcomer asks. His voice is gravelly, and sounds older, warped, but polite. “It isn’t safe, you know.”

“I am aware,” Allura says curtly. “That is why I am going home. Good night.”

She starts to step past him, but the stranger gasps softly. “Why, I know you,” he says. “You’re the so-called princess of the city. An inspiration to cryptids of all kinds who live here.” 

“You are a part of the community, then?” Allura asks. Takashi is impressed at how steady her voice is as she speaks. 

“I am,” the figure says. Takashi can’t see his face. He’s wearing a hood, and the shadows cast from the nearby street lamp obscure his face. “You could say I have wanted to meet you for a long time, princess.”

“I am not actually royalty,” Allura corrects. “And if you are interested in meeting to discuss issues in the community, you may call my office and schedule an appointment. For now, I must be going.”

She takes a step forward again, but the stranger steps with her. “I would rather talk now,” he says, a little more forcefully, a little less polite. “Wouldn’t you like to talk now, princess? I know a safe, quiet place nearby where we can talk without interruption. Doesn’t that sound pleasant?”

Takashi stalks as close as he can without revealing himself. The man sounds confident and casual, affecting _just_ enough politeness and faux care to make the lie passably believable. He doesn’t seem to think for a second the answer will be ‘no.’

But ‘no’ it is. Allura shakes her head curtly. “Thank you, but I must head home.”

The man seems surprised for a minute, then scowls. “I said you’re supposed to come with me,” he says, irritable now. “That means you’re supposed to _come_ with _me._ Why aren’t you listening?”

He reaches out for her arm. Without a shred of hesitation Allura smacks it away and backs up several steps, taking a firm stance. She raises both fists, which allows her loose coat to fall open a little, making her wings less cramped. “You will not lay a hand on me,” she orders, her voice full of command, her tone sharp. 

“How the hell are you resisting?” the man snaps. A moment later, his eyes widen as he spots the charm around her neck, revealed when her coat slipped open. “You’re protected. You _know._ She won’t be happy.” 

That’s enough for Takashi. He darts forward, already withdrawing his sidearm; he’s not close enough to use his vial of mixed aconite and holy water. He’s at a bad angle to shoot. Allura had stepped back into his line of sight when repelling her attacker. But if he can circle around he can try to get a clear shot, and his bullets have been treated with the same aconite-and-holy-water substance.

A glint of red eyes down the street is his only indication that Keith is circling for an opening as well. Lance is more obvious, crawling down a wall three buildings up. Coran is even further back, with a worse angle—he’s armed, too, but he won't be able to safely take a shot with Allura there.

But even as they move, so does the incubus. His hand plunges into his jacket, and withdraws with a pistol of his own.

Takashi curses, even as he runs. “Allura! Get out of there!”

Things happen very quickly, almost too quickly to keep track of.

Allura shucks her coat off fully, exposing her brilliantly white wings to the cold winter air, and the Aeslin mouse clinging to her shoulder. 

The incubus takes a step back in surprise, and Allura takes flight without a second’s hesitation, gliding sideways away from the man’s aim. She won’t be able to keep up flight for long in this weather, but as long as she gets away, she doesn’t need to.

The incubus curses, and whips the pistol around to try and aim at her. He spots the rush of movement surrounding him as a chupacabra, a vampire, and an armed human all charge for him at once. His eyes widen in shock. 

Takashi shouts, “I’ve got him, stay back!” and immediately levels his weapon, releasing the safety and raising it towards the incubus.

Lance, in his lizard-dog form, digs in his long claws and scratches his way to a halt, spewing freshly-cut pavement shavings.

Keith, even closer thanks to his preternatural vampiric speed, hastily twists his heel and manages to skid to a halt, barely far enough away that he won’t accidentally impede Takashi’s shot.

And the incubus, whipping around to spot his closest threat, fires his gun point-blank in Keith’s direction.

 _“No!”_ Takashi yells, as a jolt of panic and fear hits him hard in the belly. He fires at the incubus, but his split-second shocked delay costs him. The killer ducks, and Takashi misses.

He curses, but runs for the collapsed vampire in the middle of the road. 

Keith is bleeding badly—his own vampiric blood, but like any other living creature, something he desperately needs to keep inside of him. He writhes on the ground for a moment, gasping, and his hand comes up to clench at his right shoulder. His right arm hangs limp and useless, and blood runs far too quickly beneath his hand. He curls in on himself, gritting his teeth.

But as Takashi crouches down next to him, ignoring the way his knees are stained red almost immediately, Keith’s eyes snap open. “I’m okay,” he rasps. His voice is heavy, harsh and strained, like he’s trying to hold back from crying out. His pupils are nearly hairline slits from stress and pain. “I’m f-fine, I just need a...a minute.”

He struggles to get up, but collapses back down against the pavement. 

Takashi curses. “You’re not fine. You got shot, and you’re just as vulnerable to bullets as I am.”

“I’ll be—”

“Hey!” Lance barks, voice high-pitched with alarm. “He’s getting away!”

Takashi whips his head around. The incubus had taken advantage of the distraction to bolt for the nearest fire escape and start climbing. He’s already halfway up the building. What’s worse, he’s heading in the direction Allura had escaped in. He’s clearly still got his eyes on his target, and in this weather, Allura won’t be able to keep away from him much longer.

“I’m fine,” Keith repeats, wincing. “Don’t let that bastard get away.” 

Takashi hesitates, frustrated. Keith needs _help,_ but Allura—

“I’ve got him,” Coran says, rushing over and shouldering his weapon even as he crouches down next to Keith in the street. “Those are civilian units, I can’t risk shooting. Protect Allura! _Hurry!”_

“Right,” Takashi says. Coran is experienced; he can keep Keith safe until Allura can heal him. “Hang in there, Keith.”

“Hit him once for me,” Keith calls after him as he bolts, his voice still harsh and strained. 

“You got it,” Takashi calls back over his shoulder. 

He charges for the fire escape the incubus is making his way up. By now, the incubus is already just a floor away from the roof. If Takashi loses sight of him, he may not catch the bastard again. He might not be able to close the distance fast enough, but he’s sure going to try.

But he’s only just starting to gather himself for the leap to the bottom rungs of the fire escape, when Lance yells, “Hey! Shiro!”

Takashi glances over his shoulder. Lance is charging after him, shoulders already hunching as spines begin to break through his skin. He tosses his half animal, half human head back in a sharp gesture, even as he collapses onto four clawed paws, and bolts straight for the wall.

Takashi gets it. As Lance careens past him and leaps onto the lower level of the wall, Takashi throws his arms around the chupacabra’s bony shoulders. 

Takashi is not a lightweight. He’s a heavily muscled human being carting a not insignificant amount of weaponry around on his person. But while Lance’s human form looks like a stick-thin beanpole of a human teenager, his chupacabra form is apparently considerably stronger. Takashi causes a little resistance, and he can feel the strain in some of Lance’s quadruped muscles as he climbs, but that doesn’t stop him from shooting clear up the side of the building in record time. If anything, it’s more uncomfortable for Takashi, with Lance’s spines digging into his chest and shoulders as he hangs on for dear life. 

They make it to the top only seconds behind the incubus, enough to still keep an eye on him. Lance grips the raised edge of the roof and braces long enough for Takashi to grab it as well and vault over the side, before he slips over it like a slinky lizard.

“Thanks,” Takashi says. Lance merely grunts in response, remaining in his reptile-dog form. 

The sound of a gunshot and the sharp crack of a bullet narrowly missing them sends them both scurrying for cover behind the nearest air vent. Takashi curses to himself, but immediately removes his own gun again. Next to him, Lance bares his teeth with a low growl, tail lashing.

 _“Do not_ engage, Lance,” Takashi warns. “You’re not trained for this.”

Lance grunts again. Even in his other form, Takashi swears it’s sullen. 

The incubus hasn’t fired again. Takashi frowns. “Can you still hear him? He hasn’t left the roof, has he?”

Lance cocks one dog-like ear, then shakes his head. He gestures vaguely with one clawed lizard-like paw to the right, and then covers his nose with the same paw, making a soft whining noise of displeasure. 

Great. The incubus is probably trying to use his pheromones to inhibit them again. Takashi can’t smell a damn thing, but Lance must. Takashi’s glad he forced him to wear the protection charms.

But as long as he’s not escaping, or going after Allura, they’re good. “ _Stay. Here._ Let me deal with him.” 

He removes one of his throwing knives, and flings it in the opposite direction. It clacks against some piping with a metallic clang, and immediately there’s a pair of gunshots in that direction. Takashi takes the opportunity to bolt from his cover to a second large metal vent, gun at the ready. 

He can just barely see where the incubus is hiding, on the far side of the roof. If he knows any kind of parkour, he could make it to another rooftop easily. Takashi’s priority is to keep him from getting away. 

The incubus is apparently thinking along the same lines. When everything goes still and silent again, he starts inching for the side of the roof. He’s still focusing on the direction Allura had escaped in, but he’s smart enough to use his cover to his advantage. 

Takashi curses. He’s just going to have to risk going out into the open to try and bring this guy down. He doesn’t have a clear shot.

Except just as he’s about to move, there’s a frightening growl from the far side of the roof, as Lance’s dog-lizard head pops over the side. The incubus yells in anger and surprise, but leaps up to whip around and fire several times in the chupacabra’s direction. Lance’s growl turns into a dog-like yelping whimper of pain, and he ducks below the roof again. The incubus actually _laughs._

Takashi swears. 

But Lance’s intervention had helped in one way: the incubus, in his startled reaction to a nearby attacker, had moved into targeting range.

Takashi steps out from behind his cover, raises his pistol, and aims. His first shot disarms the incubus, shredding his hands and forcing him to drop the gun. Takashi’s second and third shots hit center mass with textbook precision as the startled incubus turns to face the new threat. 

The incubus looks genuinely shocked as he collapses.

“Lance!” Takashi hollers, even as he leaps forward. “Lance, buddy, you okay?”

Lance’s chupacabra head pokes back up over the roof, spotting the downed incubus. After a moment, he slinks up over its edge again, and shifts back to his human form. “I’m okay,” he says, a little shakily. There’s a gash along the side of his face that’s bleeding, but he does otherwise look uninjured. “He just grazed me. Startled me is all.”

“Good,” Takashi says. “We’re going to talk about this in a second.” 

But for the moment, he has bigger problems. He crouches down next to the incubus, putting his gun away but still keeping a knife on hand, just in case. 

For the first time since the whole mess started, Takashi gets a good look at the attacker’s face. His hood has fallen back, giving a clear view of his features. 

Incubi have a reputation for being drop-dead gorgeous—or at least, they’re usually remembered as such—but there’s nothing attractive about this one. His whole face is scarred and twisted, his ears and nose burned down to nubs, and his ruined skull has no hair. His lips are thin and twisted too, but even now, there’s a malicious smile in them, and his eyes glitter with malice as well.

The incubus is still alive, but his breathing is labored and wet sounding. Blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth and coats his chest, and Takashi is glad once again for the charms he’d made. Incubus blood has the same effect as their pheromones, but dialed to eleven, and there is a _lot_ of blood. He’d definitely hit a lung. The incubus won’t be alive much longer, and Takashi’s aconite-and-holy-water treated bullets will negate the increased healing factor his species possesses.

Takashi regrets the lethal shot, but only because he’d been hoping to question the bastard. He doesn’t regret for a second wiping this scum off the face of the planet. If it came down to protecting Lance or a chance at taking this guy alive, he’d protect Lance every time.

He nudges the incubus curtly. “What’s your name?”

The incubus’ eyes roll to meet his. “Macidus,” he whispers after a moment, harsh and bubbling. To Takashi’s horror, he smiles. “Learn it. So my mistress will know I served…”

Takashi’s eyes narrow. “Mistress? You work for someone?”

“You can’t stop her,” the incubus says, almost dreamily. “She’ll kill you...she’ll kill all of you…”

“Her name,” Takashi orders sharply. 

But Macidus doesn’t seem to care. “I served,” he whispers, almost giggling. “I served her well…”

Takashi grits his teeth. But he can see the incubus is fading, and he still has more questions. “Why did you kidnap those girls? How did your powers get stronger? How did you affect non-mammals?”

“...made me stronger…” Macidus whispers, hazily. “Made me stronger...prove how strong...I served...promised rewards for serving…” He smiles. It’s a dark, manic smile, even as he coughs blood. “Got to choose...so many different kinds of screams...so beautiful...a gift enough from my mistress. I _served…_ I was _rewarded...”_

_“Who did you serve?”_ Takashi barks, angry now. 

“...Galra…” Macidus slurs, as his eyes flutter closed. 

He’s still smiling as he dies. 

“Galra?” Lance asks, uneasily. “Is that some kind of cryptid?”

“No cryptid I’ve ever heard of,” Takashi says slowly, frowning at the incubus. “But it’s something to look into.” If somebody had been enhancing cryptid powers somehow, and siccing the results on innocent civilians…

_She’ll kill you. She’ll kill all of you._

Takashi’s stomach churns at the thought.

He digs out his cell phone and dials Allura. Thankfully, she picks up after the very first ring. “Are you alright?” she asks immediately.

“I’m good. He’s dead. Are you okay?”

“Chilly, but alright,” Allura says. “I flew two blocks over and hid on a roof.”

“Good,” Takashi says. “I need you to talk to your contacts and stall. A lot of gunshots were fired out here, police have probably already been called. I need time to get rid of the body. Afterwards, Keith got shot pretty badly, if you could—”

“I will take care of everything,” Allura says, grim and determined. “Return to my penthouse in one hour.”

“Deal.” Takashi hangs up, and immediately sets to work. 

But not without staring Lance down, first. “Now that everything else is out of the way—what the _hell_ was that?”

Lance looks appropriately chagrined. “What?”

“I told you not to get involved, didn’t I?”

“I wanted to help take him down! And he was trying to sneak away.”

“Lance,” Takashi says, frustrated, “This isn’t a game, and it’s not some hero’s story. That wound on your face is a _bullet_ graze. You understand that you are incredibly lucky, right? A centimeter to the left, and you would be dead tonight.”

Lance winces, and presses his hand to the wound on his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. His voice shakes a little, and Takashi realizes the kid is trembling a little, too. The shock is finally starting to wear off as the reality of what just happened sinks in. 

Takashi sighs. Yelling at the kid isn’t going to help any. “You don’t have any training, buddy,” he repeats his admonishment from earlier. “You don’t know how to deal with this. I’m grateful for your help tonight, but _please._ Don’t do anything like this ever again. Okay? This isn’t your responsibility.” 

Lance swallows, but after a moment, he nods shakily. “Uh. Okay. Right.”

“Thank you.” Takashi sighs. “I need to get to work making this guy disappear. It can get a little grisly. You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to, but stick with Allura and Coran until we can get the search for you wiped.”

Lance stares at him for a moment. “Geez,” he says finally. “You really confuse me. How can you yell at me about staying safe and then flip to talking about just ‘disappearing’ a body? I guess you still got a little Shirogane in you after all.” 

Takashi snorts. “Some of it’s still useful,” he says bluntly. “But I’m on your side.”

“Thank God for that,” Lance says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’d be pretty scary otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who guessed incubus, excellent job!


	9. Chupacabra chupacabra: Part Four

“I’m my own person, unique in the annals of my family tree, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a part of the lineage that made me.”  
—Antimony Price, _That Ain’t Witchcraft_

**_Running all over the city, trying to clean up way too much_ **

Things quiet down after that night.

Takashi is able to successfully dispose of the body without any interference from the local authorities. It takes some doing; incubus blood still contains its attractive properties even after death, and he has to be certain nothing is left behind to affect anyone _not_ protected by a charm. But before he does, he goes through every item of clothing and every pocket of Macidus’, searching for _any_ hints of information about this mysterious Galra, or any indications if he was working with a partner. 

He doesn’t find much that’s conclusive. As far as he can tell, Macidus had been working alone to kidnap and torture the girls. But the talk about a higher power is disturbing, and try as Takashi might, he can’t find anything in Macidus’ possessions that talks about this ‘Galra.’ 

He does find a hotel key in the incubus’ wallet. It lets him identify where the man had been staying—from the sounds of it, he’d used his pheromones to bribe his way into staying free and being left alone. 

From there, Takashi digs up information about where the man had been keeping and torturing the girls, in an abandoned nook off an old subway line. His guess about using the sewer to transport the girls had been accurate. He’s able to recover the personal effects of most of the girls, and give them to Allura to distribute back to their last of kin. 

The case details are closed, but Takashi still finds he has more questions than answers. Who the hell had Macidus even _been?_ Allura had asked around her contacts. Keith—once he’d recovered from his gunshot wound—had checked with the Marmora Society as well. 

But the incubus is a virtual unknown. The name was most likely fake. His features had been so scarred over and destroyed he was unrecognizable to most people in the communities—assuming they had ever seen him pre-scarring properly to begin with, without having their memories of his attractiveness altered by his pheromones. His fingerprints had been completely burned away. There was no way to identify him, other than as a psychopath who took pleasure in torturing innocent victims. 

But someone had set him loose on the city of Garrison. Someone who’d instructed him to kill as he pleased, in order to test their ‘upgrades,’ if Macidus’ dying words were any indication. 

And they _had_ been upgrades. Takashi had taken samples to a cryptobiologist Allura knew in the community. They had agreed the strength of the incubus’ pheromones, and his blood, had been exponentially higher than the average lilu of either gender was capable of.

Somebody is trying to play god. Takashi doesn’t like that.

_Galra._

There’s nothing at all about ‘Galra’ that Takashi can find. He doesn’t know if it’s a species of cryptid, an organization, a codeword, or even an ideal. He doesn’t know, and neither do any of his contacts, or Allura’s, or Keith’s. But the fact that this ‘Galra’ is already willing to go to such great lengths worries him. Researching them goes to the top of his list of priorities.

But there’s nothing he can do about it now. And he _is_ confident, at least, that the kidnap and murder of women is over. 

He spends most of the next few days cleaning up and doing his follow-up research. But he also does take the time to check in on everyone else. 

As promised, the day after the fight, he brings the Aeslin mice another box of donut holes as thanks for their Witness, and a block of cheese to commemorate the brave mouse that had stayed with Allura. They accept the offerings with a lot of shrill cheering and a large number of _hails._

Allura and Coran are both also fine. Allura had been chilled through and had spent most of her day bundled up in warm clothes with the thermostat cranked to almost ninety, but otherwise she’s hard at work doing her own research on the mysterious ‘Galra.’ Coran had been away from most of the action, other than helping Keith, but he thanks Takashi profusely for keeping Macidus away from Allura. 

Keith’s own part of the adventure had ended abruptly with his gunshot wound. Coran had helped him move out of the street so he wasn’t accidentally run over, but then he’d been forced to simply wait until Allura had healed the worst of the injury. Takashi had gotten him home, let him go through two more blood packs, and then put him to bed before the sun even rose. 

But vampires are fairly resilient by nature. The incubus had used ordinary bullets that hadn’t been treated with wild rose, white oak, or white ash, which were the only things that could seriously impede Keith’s tenacity and healing ability. Since Keith hadn’t been shot anywhere lethal and wasn’t immediately killed, he would be right as rain in a week or two, after several more regular feedings. He’d been irritated and sore more than anything else.

But of all of them, the one Takashi is most worried about is Lance. 

Lance had stuck around with them long enough to get his name cleared from the ‘wanted’ charges, and Allura had even healed his face, to thank him for his assistance. Once the city wasn’t out for his blood anymore, though, he’d disappeared on them. 

Takashi still isn’t sure exactly why. Lance had struck him as a rather sociable kid, when he wasn’t being suspicious of Shiroganes, and he’d certainly worked well with them. But he hasn’t forgotten Lance’s stories about being ‘transient,’ and he knows Lance is in some other kind of trouble. He wishes he could help...but just like with Keith two years ago, he can’t force Lance to accept his aid. 

He does wish he knew where Lance _was,_ though.

But as it happens, just a few days after they’d finally brought down the incubus, Takashi answers that question without trying to.

It happens when he stops by Rosa’s wake. He dresses up appropriately for the occasion—it’s disturbing how easy it is to hide two dozen weapons in a nice suit—and introduces himself as an old acquaintance from her college. She’d been a popular person, from the sounds of it; she had dozens of visitors that had come to pay their respects to the smart, pretty, nice young lady who’d made their lives a little better. Takashi had never known her, but he does pay his respects anyway, and silently apologizes to her once more for being too late to save her. 

“He won’t hurt others,” he promises her softly, when no one else is around. “I hope you can rest easy, knowing that.” 

It’s partly to appease his own conscience. But it’s also partly to ensure her spirit is at rest. Victims with such cruel ends often come back as very terrified and very _angry_ ghosts, especially when they’re human. Hopefully, she’ll go on to her final rest, wherever that is. 

It’s when Takashi finally manages to break out of the oppressive, formal gathering, loosening his tie as he heads down the steps of the funeral home, that he spots Lance. The chupacabra is sitting on a bench in the park across the street, far enough away to look like he’s not watching the wake, but Takashi knows exactly what he’s there for.

Takashi sighs, adjusting his heavy winter overcoat—today is especially cold, with possible flurries forecast for later that evening—and crosses the street to head to Lance’s bench. Lance spots him, but thankfully, doesn’t bolt.

“Hey,” Takashi greets, voice soft, once he’s close enough. “Come to pay your respects?”

Lance shrugs awkwardly. “Sort of. I never really got the whole...wake thing. That’s a human thing. Kinda gives me the heebie-jeebies, personally. I don’t get why you put your dead bodies on display.”

Takashi shrugs. “If it makes you feel any better, it gives me the creeps a little, too, and I am human. It gives some people closure, I guess, but it’s still weird.” 

“Even if you’re used to dead bodies?” Lance asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Even if. Maybe especially in this case,” Takashi says. “Most of the dead bodies I’m around were trying to kill me in some way. At least that was a defense situation. This is just…” He shrugs.

Lance nods quietly. “Yeah.” 

“Mind if I sit a minute?” Takashi asks, gesturing to the other end of the bench.

Lance shrugs. “It’s a free country. Isn’t it a little cold out for you though?”

Takashi shrugs. “I’ll live.” He settles on the bench with a sigh. “The cold’s nice, in a way. Fresh.”

Lance hums noncommittally. 

“So. Lance,” Takashi says, after a few minutes of silence. “I told you before that after all this was over, I wanted to talk with you about your situation. You said you were…’transient.’ Did you want to elaborate on that?”

“Not really,” Lance says. He fakes ‘bored teenager’ fairly well, but Takashi can see that the topic makes him uncomfortable.

“Any reason why?”

“Nothing to talk about,” Lance says, shrugging. “I’ve got my situation under control.”

“Do you?” Takashi says. “Lance, please tell me you at least have a place to stay for tonight. It’s supposed to be below freezing.”

Lance shrugs again. “I’ve got it under control,” he repeats, which isn’t an answer at all.

Takashi sighs, but tries another tactic. “Okay. Why were you originally in Garrison? Maybe I can help.”

Lance blinks. “What?”

“You were here for something else before this,” Takashi says reasonably. “Your witness statement the other night suggested Makka was giving you a place to stay while you pursued something else during the day. You got caught up in this whole mess, but there was a _reason_ you’re here. What is it?”

Lance says nothing.

“I can help you, if you let me, buddy,” Takashi says patiently. “I’m sure you’re not doing anything to hurt anyone, not after you helped us bring Macidus down. I’ve got a lot of resources. Allura does too. Even Keith knows a few people that could help you.”

Lance scowls. “Like stupid _Keith_ would help me.”

“He would,” Takashi says. “Keith is a good kid. Even if you two bicker a little. I think you could eventually learn to get along, you just got off on the wrong foot. I’m digressing—the point is, what is it you need, Lance? If you’re willing to talk to me, I can try to help.”

Lance is silent for a few moments. But then, rather abruptly, he curls his arms around himself in a loose self-hug, and whispers, “I want to go home.”

Takashi feels his heart break a little at that, but he keeps his expression calm. “Okay. Where’s home, then? I’ll buy you a plane ticket back.”

Lance blinks, and turns to stare at him, incredulous. “You want me to tell the Covenant where a chupacabra den is? My mother would eat me.”

“Ex-Covenant,” Takashi corrects automatically. “I think I’ve proven by now I’m not out for you or your family. I want to help you. But if you still don't trust me, that's fair—I can give you the money for a full trip around the world, and that should be more than enough to pay for where you need to go. Cash. Untraceable.”

Lance laughs, a little hysterically. “Have you done this before? You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“Travel untraceably? Yes. Send a chupacabra home? Well, there’s a first time for everything. So?”

Lance swallows. “I’d…I’d like to take you up on that. I really would. I want to go home, so bad. But I don’t know where home is anymore.” He stares down at his feet, no longer daring to look in Takashi’s direction. “I’m pretty sure the Covenant already hit it.”

Takashi breathes in softly. “Do you want to tell me about it? I might be able to…to help you figure out what happened.” 

Lance’s voice is thick with barely held back emotion, and it’s an obvious struggle to speak. “I was away from home last year. At a special space camp. NASA.” He laughs, and his voice is a little hysterical again. “Sounds kinda stupid, right? Chupacabra in space. I mean, how would I cover that up? No way it could happen. How would I eat? They wouldn’t ship animal blood out to a space station for me. Total pipe dream.”

“It’s not stupid, Lance,” Takashi tells him quietly. “You’re allowed to dream big.” 

“Yeah. Well. I figure it couldn’t happen in real life, but my parents scrounged the money to send me to the camp, at least. It was fun. Real fun.” He smiles fondly at the memory, but the smile fades too quickly. “Coming home wasn’t.”

He pauses. Takashi doesn’t interrupt this time, just gives Lance a chance to build up to speaking.

“It was all gone,” Lance finally says. “All of it. We...chupacabra don’t all live in one place, but we form little community families throughout neighborhoods or towns. Supposed to be safer in case somebody is found, y’know? Support is nearby, but they can’t kill all of us at once.” He swallows. “It’s always worked before. It didn’t work this time. There were four or five houses...they were all torched to the ground. The local news called it a freak arsonist. Seemed a little too convenient they only hit cryptid houses.”

“Lance...I’m so sorry,” Takashi whispers. 

This was his family's legacy. _This_ was what he'd been trained for. To tear families apart because they were a little too different from humans. Takashi wonders if he knew the operatives who'd done it. He wonders if he'd have praised them for what they'd done, five years ago.

But the past is past. He can't do anything about who he was then, just who he is now. And now, he can help a kid who isn't all that much younger than him who really needs someone to listen.

Lance sniffles slightly. He’s still trying hard to hold back, but his voice is shakier now, and he hugs himself tighter. “I figured...no bodies were found. The news said they would’ve been destroyed completely in the blast, but...maybe they escaped, right? They could’ve survived. So I’ve been looking for news ever since. If they ran, they went into hiding, but I don’t know where. I already tried everything I could think of, and they’re not...they’re not…” 

He finally breaks, head bowing forward. “They’re not _anywhere,”_ he sobs helplessly. “I can’t _find_ them. They c-can’t be…” 

Takashi’s heart breaks for him, but he’s not really sure what to do. The Covenant didn’t exactly practice demonstrable affection, and their idea of grief support was ‘train to avenge your dead family.’ And Keith isn’t a huge fan of physical comfort or affection most of the time, even when he is feeling down. 

But Takashi has a feeling those rules don’t apply to Lance at all. He settles for putting a hand on Lance’s shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

It seems to be the correct answer. Lance sobs again, but he seems desperate for some form of contact. He leans into Takashi’s side, and promptly buries his face in Takashi’s shoulder. 

Takashi’s a little surprised by that, considering not five minutes ago Lance had still been wary about even telling him where he’d lived. He allows it anyway, patting Lance’s back gently. He’s not sure if Lance has ever been able to talk about this to anyone. It’s probably the first chance he’d had to let it all out.

Lance doesn’t cry for long. It’s a little too cold for that, and the park bench is exposed to not just the elements, but the public. This close to a funeral home, most people just assume Lance is mourning for someone, and carefully avoid looking out of a mix of respect and embarrassment. But it’s still an awkward place to break down. Takashi doesn’t mind, but Lance, apparently, does.

“Sorry,” he mutters, when he wears himself out. He sniffles again as he finally pulls away from Takashi, rubbing his nose. “I probably got snot all over your jacket.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Chupacabra snot’s pretty hard to get out of stuff,” Lance says.

“I’ve still probably had worse,” Takashi says mildly. “Feel better?”

“A little. In one way. Now I feel like an idiot for crying all over you,” Lance says, a little sheepish.

Takashi shakes his head. “Doesn’t bother me. I’m glad you could finally get it out.”

“I guess. I just…” Lance squeezes his eyes shut. “I want them to be alive. So bad. But I’m starting to think—”

“Don’t,” Takashi says.

Lance blinks. 

“You’re not wrong,” Takashi says. “There’s a chance they could have escaped. An operation like that would have taken multiple agents to complete successfully. Multiple Covenant agents are hard to get into North America—I’m assuming this took place in North America?” 

Lance nods.

“Alarms would have gone up somewhere,” Takashi says. “If it happened last summer, like you said, Allura and I _certainly_ would have heard about a large number of Covenant agents making their way into the country. We didn’t.”

Lance frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“It means,” Takashi said, “That if this was Covenant, this was a small sting operation. Two agents, three max, enough to get in and out of the country stealthily by using one of the borders instead of an American airport. Three agents are not enough to supervise multiple neighborhood blocks to ensure no cryptids got out of the houses. They probably did kill some individuals—I’m really sorry that happened at all, Lance. Those bodies would have been...removed. But there’s no way they got _everyone._ Not if the family units were as widespread as you said. Not when the Covenant doesn’t understand chupacabra communities.” 

Lance’s eyes widen. “So...so some of them could still be alive?”

“I’d be willing to put money on it buddy,” Takashi says. He doesn’t think he’s lying to the kid, either. This isn’t false hope. It’s a real chance.

Lance frowns. “But I haven’t had any news...none of them have reached out to me…”

“Do they have a way to?” Takashi asks. 

“I...I mean, they have my cell number…”

“If they’re in hiding, they might be scared to try it,” Takashi says. “If they’re afraid of being tracked or found, calling you could put you in danger. It sounds like you were the only one they knew for certain was safe and as far away from the danger as possible.” 

“I...guess.”

“Did you have any backup safe houses?” Takashi asks. “Some place to go in case of emergency?”

“Already tried’em,” Lance says. “I didn’t find anyone. Nothing had been used in months. No messages.” 

“Probably the same case, then,” Takashi says. “I’m guessing they’re afraid of inadvertently drawing attention to other survivors. And if you’re constantly on the move, there’s no way for them to contact you by more discreet means.” 

“Oh.” Lance swallows. “Then how do I even find them?”

“Probably by staying put,” Takashi says. “Preferably in a secure location you know is safe. Get to know the community and somebody might be able to keep an eye out for you.” He shrugs. “You might even be able to start here, if you want. You already know a lot of people with connections. We can keep an eye out for you.”

“You could?” Lance asks brightly. “That wouldn’t be so bad. You and Coran are alright. Allura is _great._ Even _Keith_ is okay, I guess.” 

Takashi chuckles a little at that, but then grows more serious. “Of course, that relies on _having_ a secure place to stay, Lance. You didn’t answer me earlier. Do you have a place to stay tonight? Or on a more permanent basis?”

Lance hesitates, but then slowly shakes his head. “Not yet. There’s a couple more people I could ask, maybe, but I’m not sure if they’re around today. But, hey—cold’s not so bad in my other form. I can always hulk up and sleep under a bridge or something if I need to.” He shrugs. “I’ll be fine. Most things won’t mess with a fully transformed chupacabra.” 

“Absolutely not,” Takashi says. “You know I can’t let you live like that. It’d be irresponsible of me. I’ve got a spare couch you can surf for the night. You can stay until we figure out a more permanent solution for your situation. As long as you’re comfortable with that, at least.”

Lance’s eyes light up at that. Takashi realizes he’s delighted just as much with the prospect of having _people_ around, some semblance of family, as he is with having a roof over his head. “You mean it?”

“Yes. Of course, Keith also lives there,” Takashi adds, a little warningly. “You’d have to get along enough to not burn the place down.”

Lance scowls a little at that, but the prospect of a warm place to stay with people he trusts seems to outweigh the fact that one of those people is Keith. “I can behave if he can,” Lance says decisively. 

“Good,” Takashi says. “Do you have anything you need to grab? If not, I can take you back there now, show you where it is.”

“Nope. I’m good to go.” Lance stands, and turns to look one last time at the funeral home, before turning away. 

“You did your best, Lance,” Takashi says quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Do you believe that?” Lance asks, giving Takashi a look.

“It’s hard,” Takashi admits. “But I’m trying.” 

Lance nods. “Yeah.” He considers, then says, “You’re alright, Shiro.” 

Takashi raises an eyebrow. “Shiro? Now that I think about it, you called me that the other night, too.” 

Lance shrugs. “Y’know. ‘Cause you’re a Shirogane but you’re not one of _them._ You’re _ours._ So you’re Shiro. You’re better.”

“Hmm,” Takashi says. It’s not...terrible, actually. He’s spent the first eighteen years of his life being incredibly proud of his surname, his clan, his heritage. And he’s spent the next five years of his life being ashamed of it, about what it means for others, about the bloodshed attached to the name _Shirogane._

But it’s a part of him. Being a Shirogane is who he is, for good or for ill. He’s spent five years doing everything in his power to disassociate himself from that name, but maybe...maybe it’s time to reclaim it. His own way. For how _he_ is.

Shiro. 

It has a sort of nice ring to it.

“You’re not mad?” Lance asks, a little nervously. “I can still call you Takashi instead. I know you were kind of touchy about it earlier. My mom and my big sister say I talk too much sometimes and kinda say dumb things without realizing it so maybe that was—”

“No,” Takashi— _Shiro—_ interrupts. “No, I actually kind of like it.”

* * *

So, rather unexpectedly, Shiro has a second roommate. 

Lance is a very different sort of roommate than Keith. Keith is quiet, keeps to himself, and only operates during nocturnal hours. 

Lance is louder, boisterous, full of energy, and very awake during the day. Shiro isn’t used to hearing anyone moving around in his apartment in the morning or afternoon, and it takes a little getting used to. And adjusting to another cryptid and another set of dietary needs takes some work, although thankfully animal blood is far easier to come by at a butcher shop, so he can at least avoid Rolo’s exorbitant prices. But he doesn’t mind Lance’s company, and it’s sort of nice to have a little more energy in the apartment. 

Keith is less than thrilled with Lance as a new roommate. He tolerates it, especially after Shiro has a talk with him one on one and explains Lance’s living situation. Keith’s been homeless himself; he knows how hard the streets can be. 

He puts up with Lance as a result, but it doesn’t stop their bickering. And Shiro is frankly impressed at the things they can find to fight over. From food—

 _“Did you drink my last goat’s blood,_ Keith?” 

_“Why would I touch that crap when I’ve got_ human _blood right there?”_

 _“Um, because it_ tastes _better, people-drinker?”_

 _“It does_ not!” 

—to personal space—

_“Will you stop leaving your crap all over the couch?”_

_“Ex_ cuse _me, I don’t have my own room, where’m I supposed to put my clothes?”_

—to even his own name—

 _“Hey, Shiro, can you—“_

_“Don’t_ call _him that! His name is Takashi, he’s not one of_ them.” 

_“He’s_ Shiro, _mullet!”_

—and sometimes it can get a little irritating. It’s probably a good thing that Keith is nocturnal and Lance isn’t, since it means there’s only a few hours of overlap where they’ll actually be interacting. Keith, at least, is all but dead to the world during the day, so Lance’s noisiness in the apartment goes unnoticed. 

(It doesn’t stop the pranks, at least at first. Lance had thought it would be interesting to pile different items on top of Keith during his sun-coma, when he’d be perfectly still and easy to balance things on. The resulting crash at dusk had been legendary, as had Keith’s fury. Keith had gotten his revenge afterwards by scaring the hell out of Lance at three in the morning, with his gleaming red eyes in pitch blackness, after startling him awake. Shiro had nearly attacked them both on pure adrenaline-fueled instinct when he’d woken to Lance’s panicked screams. They both learned their lessons after that). 

But mostly, Shiro learns over time, their bickering stems from a one-sided rivalry of Lance’s, exacerbated by Keith not really knowing how to respond. Lance is _jealous_ of Keith, Shiro realizes. Keith has a family of his own choosing, a number of interesting abilities that are just a _little_ bit ‘better’ than Lance’s, and the training necessary to assist with Shiro’s job. Lance feels out of place. 

It becomes most clear after another knife lesson Shiro has with Keith. Lance has heard about the lessons, and it’s become something for Lance to mock Keith for after. But Shiro doesn’t miss the longing way Lance watches them leave for practice lessons, or the way he sometimes tags along to the studio to watch with a sullen look on his face.

“Do you want me to teach you something, Lance?” he finally asks, one evening. “You seem like you’re interested.” 

“What? Why would I need that?” Lance says, a little too quickly. “I’m a chupacabra, right? I don’t need _human weapons.”_

“Keith is a vampire, and doesn’t need them either,” Shiro says patiently. “He wanted to learn because it was interesting to him. If it’s interesting to you, you should learn it, regardless of species.” 

Lance mulls that over. 

“No pressure,” Shiro adds. “But if you want to learn something, I’m more than happy to teach you.”

“Actually…” Lance looks a little sheepish. “I was kinda wondering...do you think you could show me how to shoot?”

“As in, firearms?” Shiro asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I don’t care about learning knives. I’m like, _made_ of knives, normally,” Lance says, gesturing vaguely at his back. “But guns...they kinda scare me a little, but I want to know more about’em, too. Maybe it’d be a good idea?”

“I think that would be a great idea,” Shiro says. “And I’d be happy to teach you.”

So he does. He sets up time to take Lance to a range and try out several different firearms. Lance is a natural, once he has a chance to try out different weapons, and has surprisingly good aim for a beginner. He prefers the rifle the best, but has a decent aptitude with most of them. And he’s definitely more confident around them after. 

That segues neatly into learning other forms of combat training as well. Lance is competitive, and wants to be just as useful for Shiro’s work as Keith is. Shiro’s not exactly _thrilled_ about that, but Lance strikes him as the kind of kid that might end up getting in over his head out of a false sense of heroism. He already has before. If it comes down to it, Shiro would rather he’s at least trained to handle himself. Before he knows it, he has a second cryptid on call to assist him, in the event of a community emergency. 

Admittedly, that’s not a bad thing. Keith is great, but his working hours are limited to nightfall. If something big happens in the day, it is nice to know Shiro has another form of backup in Lance. 

And Lance, once he has more of a sense of worth and importance, noticeably bickers less with Keith than before. Shiro has a feeling they’ll always argue with each other a little, but it’s less volatile now, and growing more and more into good-natured, friendly ribbing. 

The longer Lance trains, and learns to get along with his newfound family, the less he seems interested in leaving them behind. Shiro’s offered to pay for another apartment for him once or twice, but Lance has always seemed hesitant. What he really wants, Shiro realizes, is that sense of community, of family. Even if the apartment is fully paid for, Lance would probably hate living alone. 

Shiro doesn’t push him to get out. And when Lance finally asks if he can just keep surfing the couch for a little while longer, he permits it.

“I promise, I won’t be like, a deadbeat or anything,” Lance says. “I can help out with stuff, or get a job, or something. I don’t wanna mooch off you or anything. I just like it here.”

“It’s fine, Lance,” Shiro reassures. “You’re welcome here. Even Keith doesn’t mind having you around, anymore.”

So Lance becomes a more permanent addition to the family. And Shiro was telling the truth—he really doesn’t mind having Lance living there.

Even if his couch is forever beyond repair, having a spike-covered therianthrope who occasionally changes shape in his sleep as a roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends Lance's story. Next up, it's time to meet another new friend :)


	10. Gorgos stheno: Part One

“What’s a little inhumanity between friends?”   
—Verity Price,  _ Discount Armageddon _

**_At the breakfast table, actually eating for once_ **

“Hey, Shiro,” Lance says, one morning over breakfast. “D’you mind if a friend of mine meets you? I think you can help him with a problem.”

Shiro blinks and looks up from his coffee, toast, and newspaper. Lance had laughed the first time he’d seen Shiro with a newspaper— _ ”Nobody reads those anymore!”— _ but Shiro keeps on top of them anyway. The Covenant uses any and all news resources to hunt, which means Shiro needs to as well, just to stay on top of things. 

There’s nothing particularly interesting in this one today, though, and Lance’s question is more intriguing. “Who are they meeting?” Shiro asks after a moment, curious. “Ryou Tanaka, or Takashi Shirogane?”

“They’re meeting Shiro, obviously,” Lance drawls, putting down the exsanguinated remains of what had been a pigeon. Shiro has a sneaking suspicion Lance had caught it on the window ledge in the living room this morning, but by now he knows better than to ask. Three months of having a chupacabra as a roommate have more or less gotten him used to occasionally bizarre eating patterns, like draining pigeons at the breakfast table. As long as Lance doesn’t make a mess, he has no problem with it. 

If nothing else, he’s  _ excellent  _ for pest control. Shiro will never have a rodent problem. A chupacabra is better than a housecat in that regard.

“So somebody in the community then,” Shiro summarizes. Most likely a cryptid, but possibly a human sympathizer. Despite Lance’s snarky commentary when they’d first met, Lance is actually pretty accepting of all sorts of people, including humans, provided they aren’t trying to stab him. He’d been doing his best to play tough guy on that night, but Lance really loves people. He spends most of his days out networking, meeting people in the community and making friends, and he’s surprisingly good at it.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “I think you could figure out how to help him, though.”

Shiro frowns. “Is he in danger?” he asks, setting down his coffee. 

“No no no, nothing crazy,” Lance says. “It’s just...well, I’d rather let him explain it, really. After I check if he’s cool asking you for help.”

He doesn’t elaborate on the details, or even explain who—or what—this cryptid is. Shiro doesn’t push. It’s not polite to out a cryptid passing for human, especially to someone they might see as a threat. Shiro has no interest in hurting whoever this is, but they might not be comfortable with an ex-Covenant agent knowing their exact species—and their weaknesses, by proxy.

“I don’t mind talking to him, if he’s okay with it,” Shiro says. “But I’d rather not do so here. I don’t know anything about him either, and until I do, I don’t want to compromise this place’s security.” He considers. “What about the studio? I have classes all afternoon, but you could swing by in between, or after if it’s serious.”

“Sounds great,” Lance says, grinning. “I’ll talk to him and see if I can convince him to chat with you tonight.”

“Don’t force him,” Shiro says, frowning a little. It already sounds like whoever this was might be less than confident interacting with Shiro. “I know a lot of people are uncomfortable around me. I don’t want him to feel unsafe.”

“I would  _ never,”  _ Lance says, with a mock insulted expression. But he grins a second later. “It’ll be fine. I think he’ll be cool around you, once he gets to know you like the rest of us have. Anyway, thanks! I’ll catch you later, then.” 

Lance deposits his dried out pigeon husk in the bin Shiro had specifically designated for that exact purpose, snags his coat, and heads out the door. Shiro isn’t particularly worried about him heading out for the day, or about getting into trouble. Lance can take care of himself much better now, after his training, and he  _ is  _ still a chupacabra. Plus, he’s made sure Lance knows he can call Shiro at any time for help, if he needs it. 

Besides, he knows Lance is trying to figure out what to do with himself, while he’s in Garrison, and the kid needs the opportunity to figure himself out. Lance hates feeling useless. Wandering around the city helps him, and he’s been working hard to make connections with other members of the community, so his family can find him one day. But in the interim, he doesn’t have much of a goal, or anything to do with himself. Shiro’s pretty sure he’s been combing the city for some kind of job or calling he could be happy with. He probably can’t get in trouble that way.

Probably.

With Lance gone, the apartment gets quiet fast. Keith is home, but at nine in the morning he’s deep in his sun-coma, and won’t be conscious again for hours yet. The quiet is a little weird, after having Lance living there for three months, but Shiro can’t deny he still enjoys moments like this. It gives him plenty of time to catch up on his own work. 

He spends most of the morning and afternoon researching and updating his field kits. Allura hasn’t given him any major missions recently, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s mid February by now, and everyone—human and cryptid alike—seems to be in their deep winter doldrums. Most diurnal species are exhausted and desperately looking forward to spring, and even the nocturnal ones are starting to wear out from over-activity. 

But that’s not to say there’s  _ no  _ activity, and he could definitely do with some restocking. Between the routewitch that had been abusing uber and lyft patrons to siphon magic, the bogeyman getting a little  _ too  _ ‘scarecrow’ for his tastes by using nightmare fungi to start hallucinations, and the idiot who thought importing a unicorn to a petting zoo would be a  _ good  _ idea, he’s blown through several of his antidotes, poisons, and specialty bullets. 

So he spends most of his morning and early afternoon mixing new toxins and antitoxins, prepping new specialty rounds, and making a list of things he still needs. He’ll have to visit Rolo again soon, who will probably demand an arm and a leg for his troubles. But he’d rather be prepared than dead. 

By the time his classes are approaching, Shiro’s field kits are in better shape, at least. He scribbles a note for Keith— _ classes, may stay late to help a friend of Lance’s— _ and then heads out the door. 

Classes go well. Today starts a new round of lessons with a new crop of students, and he spends most of his time introducing himself to new people and running them through the basics of self defense. Despite his paranoia, long instilled by the Covenant and made worse by being an exile, he still enjoys meeting new people and learning their stories. First days are always interesting, and time flies by with remarkable speed.

He’s still in high spirits as the last of the new patrons leave for the night, and he sets to cleaning up the studio. He’s in one of the back rooms, putting away some of the equipment, when he hears voices out front. 

“Are you  _ sure  _ about this?” an unfamiliar voice asks nervously. “He’s a  _ Shirogane. _ ” 

“Relax,” the second voice says. Shiro recognizes Lance immediately. “He’s cool. He’s Shiro. He’s not gonna hurt us.”

“But they  _ kill  _ people. All the time! How is getting killed gonna help me?” 

“He’s not gonna kill you!” Lance says, sounding fondly exasperated. “I told you, I’ve been living on his couch for three months, and look, I’m not stabbed. Or shot. Or experimented on. Or anything else.”

“I don’t know…”

Shiro decides it’s probably time to make his entrance. He leaves the back room slowly and calmly, just to make it clear he’s not bull-rushing the visitor for a quick murder, and enters the main practice room. “I promise,” he says, “I have no interest in harming you. Not unless you plan on going on a rampage and killing a bunch of people, anyway.”

“Even then, he’d probably just try to talk you out of it first,” Lance adds, grinning a little at his companion. 

“Not wrong,” Shiro agrees. He reaches them, and extends a hand to Lance’s friend, surveying them curiously. He’s still not sure what species this guy is, but you can’t go wrong with a handshake. For some species it’s a friendly gesture, and for others it’s an indication that you’re putting yourself within striking range of them willingly, as a show of trust. “Hey. My name’s Takashi. Lance said I could help you with something?”

The newcomer stares at Shiro for a moment, bewildered and a little uneasy. He’s a big guy, nearly as tall as Shiro is, with dark skin and dark hair held back from his face with a long strip of cloth. Shiro estimates he’s probably around Lance’s age, although with cryptids it can be difficult to tell, sometimes. And if he  _ is  _ a cryptid, Shiro has no idea what kind. He looks perfectly human...but then, many cryptids excel at passing for human in a human-controlled world, out of sheer necessity.

“Um,” the newcomer says after a moment. He blinks once, but then cautiously accepts Shiro’s hand. When Shiro doesn’t immediately launch into some kind of murder attempt, he shakes it with a little more confidence. “Hunk,” he introduces himself. “And uh, don’t worry about the killing rampage thing. I’m not really a fan of blood, especially when it’s, y’know, not supposed to be coming out of people.”

Cross chupacabra and vampire off the list of potential cryptids, then. “Well, then I don’t foresee us having a problem,” Shiro says with a smile, trying to keep things light. “So...how can I help you?”

Hunk hesitates, giving Lance an uneasy glance. “Are you  _ sure  _ he can help?”

“I told you, he does non-murdery solutions to problems too,” Lance says. 

“I prefer them, actually,” Shiro says. “I really don’t like to resort to killing unless absolutely necessary.”

Hunk seems a little bewildered by that response, but after a moment says, “I, uh...have a bit of a food problem.”

Shiro frowns, now all business. “Food problem? In what regard?”

“It’s, uh…” Hunk glances back at the large, open, public windows of the studio’s main room, and back to Shiro. “Is there a less...obvious place we can talk? It’d be easier to show you, but…”

“My office is private,” Shiro says, gesturing over his shoulder. He’s not worried about Hunk pulling a fast one. He doubts Lance would bring anyone deliberately dangerous to meet him, and a less public setting would make most cryptids feel more at ease. But even if Lance completely misread the situation and Hunk’s nerves are a very clever act, Shiro is positive he can handle whatever kind of cryptid Hunk turns out to be. 

Lance follows Shiro confidently into the office, unconcerned. Hunk, presumably reassured by both the privacy and the fact that he has backup against a Shirogane if needed, follows after a moment. Once safely situated with a closed door, Shiro gestures to the extra chairs for the two of them while he sits behind his desk. 

“Okay. Food problem. What’s going on, and how can I help?”

“Well, it’s kind of a matter of  _ getting  _ food. Or, keeping food, I guess you could say,” Hunk says slowly. “I’m, uh...well, here.” He reaches up to his head, and removes the strip of cloth serving as a headband. As soon as it’s not touching his skin, his hair  _ flickers,  _ and suddenly it isn’t there anymore. Instead there’s at least a dozen dark-colored snakes with soft yellow markings sprouting from his skull, which curl, docile, around his neck and head. 

Shiro doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the snakes, other than to identify the head shape and patterns. Two of the three species of gorgons aren’t all that uncommon, and they’re generally pretty friendly, provided you aren’t trying to kill them or their communities. Based on these snakes, Hunk is a pliny’s gorgon, and they aren’t known for being overly aggressive or deadly unless provoked. 

Which is not to say that Hunk can’t be dangerous, if threatened. Hunk’s snakes are venomous and could definitely petrify if they bit Shiro, which would be an unpleasant way to die. His gaze could be potentially dangerous too—the gaze of a pliny’s gorgon can temporarily paralyze at worst, and would be lethal to anything smaller than an adult human. 

But Hunk is almost certainly wearing contacts to prevent mishaps with his gaze. And while his snakes are alert, they aren’t aggressive, hissing, or taking strike positions. As long as Shiro doesn’t cause trouble, he doubts he has anything to fear.

He  _ is  _ impressed by the headband, however. “Illusion magic?” he asks, nodding to the strip of cloth. “It’s pretty good. I didn’t hear or see anything.”

Hunk blinks for a moment, apparently having expected more of a reaction to his living hair. But then he grins, glancing down at the headband now twined around his fingers, and seems to relax a little. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Pretty great, right? I fixed up some electrical issues for a community of hidebehinds down in the sewers and they gave me this as payment. Better than any wig. It dampens sound, so you don’t have to worry about people asking why your hair is hissing. And it’s got a minor compulsion that keeps them calm, so I don’t have to worry about accidental bites around campus.”

“Sounds great,” Shiro says. The hidebehinds could probably make a real market off of those, but they were secretive with their illusion work, for obvious reasons. Shiro’s not sure he’s ever seen what an actual hidebehind looks like, and not even the Covenant have any details on the matter. They’d want to hold that close to the chest.

“It’s a real lifesaver, that’s for sure,” Hunk agrees. “Pretty sure petrifying people on campus gets you expelled.”

Shiro chuckles a little. “Probably a good bet. So. Campus? You’re going to college here in Garrison?” He looks around Lance’s age, so it’s probably a safe guess.

Hunk nods. “Engineering major at Garrison U. I’m a freshman. It’s a useful skill my community back home could use, and it’s interesting. But I’ll need to get the classes out of the way before I’m too old.”

Shiro nods in understanding. Pliny’s gorgons usually live in hidden communities in the countryside or other remote areas. Not only does this permit them to wander around in the open without risk of being seen, it prevents accidental mishaps when non-gorgons meet the gaze of a gorgon without eye protection. 

Most communities are self-sustaining, with their own people obtaining medical degrees and tradeskills necessary for the whole community’s benefit. Many grow their own food to be as independent as possible, without relying on humans for survival. As a result, gorgons tend to keep to themselves, other than leaving a few ‘scouts’ in human communities to give early warning of danger. But they do need to leave the safety of the community periodically to learn skills, get information, or travel to other communities. 

So Shiro isn’t surprised to see Hunk in the city. Nor is he surprised Hunk is trying to finish as soon as possible, even if it means starting in the Spring semester. Male pliny’s gorgons can grow up to eight feet tall in height, and Hunk is already fairly tall in his late teens. In four or five more years, even with the hidebehind illusions to mask his snakes, he’ll stick out like a sore thumb—probably the last thing he or his community would want. 

“That’s kind of the problem, though,” Hunk says. “I got a single room at the dorms, because, well.” He gestures at his snakes. “Rooming with a gorgon can be tricky. But it’s a little more expensive than I’d hoped for. And on top of that, feeding these guys is just a chore. Everything’s so much more expensive here in the city!” 

“Feeding the snakes?” Shiro clarifies, eyeing the mass of writhing reptiles on Hunk’s skull. 

“Yeah. Do you know how expensive live mice and rats are? And they won’t do bulk frozen thawed, I tried it,” Hunk says, with a sigh. “Picky eaters. Only the best rodents will do. And I mean I get it, I only like the best food too, but  _ still. _ ”

“Alright, I’m starting to see where your problem is coming in,” Shiro says, tapping his fingers on the table. “Have you tried breeding your own feeder mice? Reptile collectors will take that route when they have large numbers of animals to care for.” 

“Tried it,” Hunk says, glum. “But pets aren’t allowed on campus, and the RA’s have already given me two warnings about it. If they catch me again, I’ll get kicked off campus. And I can’t afford to rent an apartment in the city!” 

“Alright,” Shiro says, thinking fast. “What about your community? Are they able to help with the extra expenses?”

Hunk shakes his head. “They would, but it’s already costing a lot to get me out here. Tuition and board is expensive, especially when you can’t cut costs by rooming with people.” 

“I’ll bet,” Shiro agrees. “Is there a gorgon community here you can talk to? Maybe they can help with food supplies?” 

“If there was, do you think I’d be rooming on campus?” Hunk asks, a little incredulous. “Not, that I’m, y’know, affirming or denying there’s gorgons here,” he adds hastily. 

Shiro doesn’t push him on that. If he wants to keep his community’s connections a secret, that’s his business. He’s got a right to want to keep that kind of information from a former Covenant agent. 

“How about other friends you can ask to house a feeder colony?” Shiro tries next.

“Thought about it,” Hunk says, a little despairingly now. “But most of my friends on campus aren’t, y’know,  _ in the know.  _ They’re nice humans, but they’d want to know why I needed so many mice, and if I say it’s to feed pet snakes, they’d want to see the snakes.” He shrugs. “My friend Shay’s in the community, but she lives on campus, so she’d have the same problem as me. I don’t want to get her in trouble, either.” 

“That’s how I figured out about this stuff,” Lance adds brightly. “Hunk asked me if I could keep a colony for him, ‘cause he knows I don’t live on the campus or anything.”

“Oh?” Shiro asks, raising an eyebrow. “How exactly did you two meet each other, anyway?”

“I met him on the campus,” Hunk says, blinking. “When he was hanging around the enrollment office.”

“Enrollment office?” Shiro repeats, directing his attention to Lance. 

Lance looks sheepish. “I kinda figured, y’know, maybe there were some cheaper classes I could try out or something,” he mumbles, almost too low for Shiro to make out. “Something I could use to get a job, maybe. So I’m not quite so useless.”

“You’re not useless, Lance,” Shiro reassures automatically. “But I think it’s a good idea to look into classes if it’s something you’re interested in pursuing. We can talk about it later, if you want help figuring it out. For now, though…” He gestures at Hunk.

“Right,” Lance says, straightening. “Well, like Hunk said, I met him on the Garrison U campus and he’s pretty cool. Really smart and stuff. But not much of a sense for adventure,” he finishes, grinning a little at Hunk.

Hunk grumbles. “Your  _ adventures  _ cause trouble. Usually for  _ me. _ ” He shakes his head, and his snakes hiss gently as they curl around his neck a little more. “Anyway, I knew Lance didn’t live on campus, so I figured maybe I could ask him to hold on to the feeder mice for me. He could even have one sometimes if he wanted.” 

Lance licks his lips at the thought. 

“He said he doesn’t own his own place, so he couldn’t agree,” Hunk says. “But he told me about you, and I figured he must be crazy or maybe kidnapped or brainwashed or something because, well,  _ Shirogane,  _ but you seem, I don’t know. Not as stabby as the stories talk about? I mean, you haven’t tried to kill me yet.”

“I’m only stabby with bad guys,” Shiro promises. 

“Well, I guess maybe I believe it a little better,” Hunk says with a sigh. “You’ve been nice about giving me suggestions at least, even if none of them worked out.”

“I’m glad I’m a little more trustworthy now,” Shiro says. “Which leads me to add that I’m not actually done giving suggestions. If you want, you can store a feeder colony here.”

Hunk blinks at him. “What?”

Shiro gestures around at his fairly large office. “You can store one here,” he repeats. “As long as you trust me enough to be storing your food supply. I can get you a spare key for the studio as long as you’re good about locking up after. The office is private, so your snakes can eat without anyone walking in on you.” 

Hunk looks shocked. “What! I mean, of course I’m good about security and all that, I mean,  _ hello.”  _ He gestures at his own head, and several of his snakes wave gently towards his fingers. “But why would you trust  _ me  _ with your place?”

“You seem nice enough,” Shiro says with a shrug. “Lance wouldn’t have brought you to me if he didn’t think I could help, and you look like you could use a hand. And I’m a pretty good judge of character. I don’t think you’d cause any trouble.”

Not that Hunk could if he tried. Shiro had made sure the studio was secure a long time ago. There’s nothing in his documentation linking back to his actual address or his real identity, and he keeps his clients’ personal information locked away securely. Even if Hunk did have access to his office and less than reputable intentions, Shiro’s sure things would be protected long enough for him to deal with it.

He doesn’t mention that last part, though. Hunk is only just starting to relax around him. Shiro doubts it would help.

“If you’re not comfortable with that, that’s fine,” Shiro adds. “I can also speak to Allura about seeing if she can arrange alternative measures for you. It might take longer to set that up, though, and I’m not sure what your food situation is now.”

“You know  _ Allura?”  _ Hunk asks, startled. “Like, Allura Altea, the city’s cryptid princess?”

“She’s not actually a princess—”

“I know her too!” Lance interrupts, scowling. “I told you that already!” A little less sullen, he glances at Shiro, and adds, “I thought about her too, but I wasn’t sure how she’d take to, y’know, talking about breeder mice, considering the whole Aeslin colony thing.”

“Aeslin mice? She has Aeslin mice? They’re not extinct?” Hunk squeaks, bewildered. 

“They aren’t. They also are off the table as dinner,” Shiro says, a little sternly. 

Hunk squirms a little. “Oh, I wouldn’t. I mean, everyone back home talks about them like a fancy delicacy, but I think it’d be weird to eat something that could talk.” 

“Yeah,” Lance agrees. “I like a mouse snack as much as the next chupacabra, but I wouldn’t touch the Aeslin, it’d just be...awkward. Especially now that they’re figuring out priest names for me.” 

“It’s up to you, Hunk,” Shiro says, steering the conversation back on track. “Just let me know, and we can work out the details.” 

“I’d be  _ happy  _ to taste-test to prove they’re not poisoned, if you pick here,” Lance offers brightly, licking his lips again.

“Could...could I try it here, for a bit? If you don’t mind,” Hunk says, tentative. “This place isn’t too far from the campus, it’d be good to have food on hand nearby.” 

“Not a problem,” Shiro agrees. “You said you’d gotten some breeders already? You can bring them by tonight if you want, so you don’t get in trouble on campus.”

“Can I really? That’d be  _ great,”  _ Hunk says, relieved. “My hair doesn’t need to eat until next week, and it’d be nice to not have to worry about the RA’s breathing down my neck.”

They hash out the details easily after that, and Hunk seems noticeably more relaxed the longer he interacts with Shiro and isn’t stabbed for daring to do so. Hunk has most of the equipment already, including a rack to store everything on; it’s just a matter of location. He promises to do most of the caretaking work, although Lance volunteers to help as well, in exchange for a snack or two. 

He’s so relieved by having his food source taken care of that he’s even willing to get into Shiro’s car, after Shiro offers to drive to the campus so they can store all the equipment and animals and bring them back immediately. Shiro stays put in the car itself, letting Lance and Hunk haul things out of the dorm—he doesn’t want Hunk to feel too pressured about an ex-Covenant agent knowing his exact living location too early, especially when gorgons are traditionally cagey about it to begin with. But Hunk’s more than happy to have help moving everything, and by eleven at night they’re back at the studio with everything needed.

By midnight, everything is all taken care of. The rack setup fits neatly into one corner of Shiro’s office, and a small side table is now devoted to food, bedding, and other necessities for the project. Several lab cages full of rodents stack neatly on the rack. Shiro can’t claim to be an expert on rodents, but the animals look clean, healthy and humanely cared for, even if they’re ultimately destined to be dinner. Hunk certainly knows what he’s doing, at least. 

“Thanks so much, Shiro,” Hunk says, as they close up the studio for the night. “I really appreciate this. This takes a huge load off my mind.” He willingly shakes Shiro’s hand this time, much more friendly and relaxed than he had been a few hours ago. 

“No problem, Hunk,” Shiro says. “Stop by tomorrow any time after four. I’ll have a spare set of keys for you by then, you can pick it up after my afternoon class.” 

“Right! I’ll be here! Thanks!”

And so Hunk becomes another regular cryptid in Shiro’s life. 

At first, it’s purely business. Hunk stops by almost every day to feed the animals or check on the cleanliness of the cages, and at least once a week to feed. If he picks a day that Shiro is there, he’ll usually chat with him for a few minutes. If it’s a day Shiro’s out, the studio still remains well organized, the safe is left alone, and none of the equipment goes missing. 

He  _ does _ find evidence that Hunk has snooped through the entire rest of the office—the desk drawers rifled through, the first aid kit rearranged, and the little lost-and-found trunk thoroughly investigated. But when he mentions it to Lance, the chupacabra laughs.

“Hunk’s just like that,” Lance says, grinning. “First day I met him he went through my whole backpack like an hour after he said hello. He’s nosy, but he won’t steal your stuff. I mean, not for too long. Usually he gives it back. I think.” 

Shiro’s seen no evidence of anything taken, and there’s no dangerous information that Hunk could uncover at the office. So he bemusedly lets it go, and gets used to his pens, forms, and coffee cups moving around from week to week. 

At first, it’s purely business, but over time, it shifts into something a little more than that. Hunk might stop by to care for his feeder animals, but he also stops by more and more often to just hang out. Sometimes he’ll do his history or literature homework in the back office (“It’s way quieter here than party nights in the dorm,” he confesses). Sometimes he’ll meet up with Lance there, to grab a bite to eat before they head out to catch a movie or hang around the vintage arcade six blocks over, but he’ll always take some time to catch up with Shiro first. Hunk is easy to get along with, and in very little time Shiro finds himself smiling whenever he catches sight of the gorgon at his studio. 

He isn’t the only one. Hunk meets Keith after the first week of the new food storage arrangement, when Keith stops by the studio for his and Shiro’s weekly blade combat sessions. Hunk is happy to finally meet the roommate Lance complains about so often (“I don’t know what Lance is whining about, your face isn’t  _ that  _ scary—wait, nevermind—”) and delighted at the prospect of meeting a vampire (“I’ve never met a vampire before. Are you all vampire or just part vampire? Do you sleep in a coffin? Or like a dirt pile? Do you have one of those cool capes? Are you like a billion years old?”). 

Keith is initially overwhelmed by the onslaught of questions, which makes him a little defensive and snappish. But once Shiro intervenes and Hunk cools down on the questions, Keith gets along with him better, and doesn’t mind Hunk being around as much. He’ll even engage in friendly banter, and occasionally can even be convinced by Hunk to join them on excursions to game centers or movies. For Keith, who still doesn’t do well with unknown people, it’s high praise. 

Weeks pass, and Hunk becomes a commonplace sight at the studio. He fixes an electrical issue free of charge when an issue with the security cameras comes up. He tutors Lance through a few high school level lessons, since the chupacabra’s been homeless for a while, so he’ll be able to pass entrance exams when he does eventually apply for some courses. He convinces Keith to actually smile, fangs and all, for a few selfies with him, under the guise of seeing ‘if that thing about vampires and showing up in pictures is true.’ (It isn’t, and Shiro could have told him that easily, but it’s so good to see Keith making friends with people his own age that he keeps it to himself). 

Shiro will admit, it’s nice to have Hunk around. Even after being in Garrison for years, there are still precious few cryptids that trust him absolutely. But Hunk has rapidly shifted from being cautious and nervous to hanging around on a regular basis. It’s nice to have someone just give him the benefit of the doubt, and trust him based on who he is, and not his name.

Hunk must like hanging around them just as much, because he shows up one March evening during Keith’s sparring session with Shiro, bearing an armful of warm drinks in paper cups, each one banded with a different color. “Got a surprise for you guys, as a ‘thanks for letting me store my food here’ present,” he announces. “Lance! Out front!”

Lance slinks out of the office. He tends to hide in there on feeding nights that overlap with Keith’s sparring sessions, at the risk of gleefully heckling the combat practice otherwise. “What’s up?”

Shiro and Keith both pause in the middle of training as Hunk bustles over to the nearby table against the wall, and settles the drink tray on it. “My masterpieces,” he announces, waving at the drinks, as he carefully pops each one from the cardboard tray and sets them out next to each other. The white paper cups are banded with red, yellow, blue, and black. 

Keith takes a curious sniff, and frowns. “Is that blood and...coffee? Chocolate?”

“Definitely blood in there,” Lance agrees, taking his own deep whiff. 

Shiro will never get used to being surrounded by so many people with incredibly enhanced senses. With the caps on the cups, he can barely smell anything until he gets close enough, and then it’s mostly the iron tang of blood.

“Little of everything,” Hunk says brightly. “I’ve been experimenting with some drinks. Just for fun, y’know. Who says neat holiday drinks have to disappear after Christmas? This time of year is when people need a little cheer, anyway.”

“I can’t drink that stuff anyway,” Keith says, frowning.

“That’s why I made you your own thing,” Hunk says, plucking the red-banded cup from the table and handing it to Keith. “Red for blood, ‘cause you’re a vampire, y’know.”

“I drink blood too,” Lance complains, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, but I marked yours with blue, ‘cause it’s your favorite color,” Hunk says. “That’s what you told me.” He hands off the second cup to Lance, who looks mollified.

“These two are for us,” Hunk adds, gesturing to Shiro. “But don’t take the yellow one, it’s spiked with rattlesnake venom for an extra kick. Well, an extra kick for me. You’d probably just get extra dead.” 

“That would certainly be a kick,” Shiro comments wryly, but he obediently takes the black-banded cup. It’s comfortably warm in his hands, and when he pops the lid carefully and sniffs curiously, he picks up warm cinnamon and frothy chocolate, and just a touch of cream. “What is all this, Hunk?”

“Just try it. Let me know what you think. You’re all kind of my guinea pigs,” Hunk admits, a little sheepishly. 

“If we try it, are you gonna explain everything?” Lance asks.

“Yes. Promise.”

If it were any other cryptid offering him the drink, Shiro might be hesitant. There are a lot of crytpids out there that would prefer him dead, after all, and wouldn’t hesitate to ‘accidentally’ let him pick the cup with rattlesnake venom instead. But Hunk looks so enthusiastic and hopeful, and he’s never been a particularly violent or aggressive sort. So Shiro shrugs, and takes a sip.

It tastes  _ wonderful.  _ Nothing like the cheap coffees or watery hot chocolates he picks up from chain coffee shops on his way to a job. This is rich and smooth, with just the right subtle blend of flavors. 

“This is great, Hunk,” Shiro says, impressed. 

“It’s alright? Humans have different taste than gorgons do, but I hoped I got the blend okay. I’ve been watching human cooking shows and stuff.”

“It’s more than great, it’s fantastic,” Shiro says, taking another sip. Admittedly, his taste isn’t all that refined, and he could easily live out of boxed meals until his dying day with no complaints about the flavor. But this is something else. 

Keith takes a hesitant sniff of his own drink, and an equally hesitant sip. His eyes light up a moment later, though, and he stares at his cup in shock. “Woah. What did you do to this?”

“Added a shot of adrenaline to some B positive,” Hunk says, beaming. “Did it work? To add flavor? I’ve never worked with anyone that drank just blood before, either, but I figured there had to be  _ something  _ to make your food more interesting that you could like...not get sick on, right? Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, still staring down at his cup in bewilderment. “It tastes different. Good, actually. Kinda like...I don’t know if there’s a word for it. A little spice? Only it’s not spice. I don’t know, but it’s good.” He takes a larger gulp of his doctored blood concoction, far less hesitant than before. 

“How about you, Lance?” Hunk asks, hopeful and anxious all in one. “I got some quality goat’s blood and added—”

“Nope, nope, don’t ruin my drink with  _ science,”  _ Lance says, holding his hand up. “I don’t need to know what’s in it to know it’s  _ good.  _ And it’s  _ really  _ good.” 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, Hunk,” Shiro says, “Because I do, this really is delicious—but what exactly is with the drinks?”

Hunk looks a little sheepish as he sips his own rattlesnake-venom spiked coffee. “It’s, well, it’s sort of a silly dream of mine. See, I’m here for my community to learn engineering, and then I’ll head back home and live there forever, I guess. But it’s always kind of...been my dream to open a restaurant. For people in the cryptid community. Y’know...a safe place to go to get some quality dinner that you won’t find at the local Olive Garden or whatever.” He shrugs. “It’s silly, I know, but—”

“That’s not silly, that’s  _ awesome,”  _ Lance interrupts, eyes bright. “D’you know how much I’ve always wanted to do the ‘go out to dinner’ thing? It looks fun, but people look at you like you’re a serial killer if you order a cup of blood instead of the soup and sandwich.” 

Keith snorts, but nods in agreement as he takes another sip of his drink.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Shiro says. “You obviously have a talent for it. Allura could probably help you get set up in a safe space to do that here in Garrison, if you wanted.”

“You think?” Hunk says brightly. Then he frowns. “But...I don’t know. My community needs me to go to school for engineering stuff back home. They’re paying my tuition out here...it’d be kind of a jerk move to let them pay all that money and then not even do what I was sent here for. Plus, I do still really miss my family...”

“It’s not a decision you have to make right away,” Shiro says. “Take some time to think on it. You can always practice your cooking skills in the meantime. I’m sure none of us will complain.” 

“Not that we can help much,” Keith says, nodding to Lance. “We’re kind of limited in food choices.” 

“That’s alright,” Hunk says. “I still have a few other things I can try for you guys. And Shiro can help out a lot, too.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Not that I don’t mind helping, but how many humans do you expect to frequent this establishment of yours?”

“Well, the nice ones can still come, like you,” Hunk says. “And they’d still get human food. Food brings all sorts of people together! But I mean, I’m sure there’s a ton of other cryptids with similar diets, right? Bogeymen, lilu, jinx...Shiro can help me figure out what works good for them, too.”

“When you put it that way...then I’m more than happy to assist,” Shiro says, smiling a little. “It’s probably one of the nicer jobs I’ll ever do for the community.”

Hunk beams at him.

In the end, it becomes impossible to think of Hunk as just another stranger, especially when he comes around the studio with a used Nintendo Switch console and a handful of controllers. “I got the system and a bunch of games we can all play together,” Hunk says, eyes bright. “I bought them off another student who was trying to get rid of them all for half price. I think it’d be fun, if we can find a place to play. Although, uh…” He glances around at Shiro, Keith and Lance. “I might not be able to fit all of you in my single dorm…”

Lance gives Shiro a pleading look at that. “Shiro...c’mon. He’s got Mario Kart.  _ And  _ Smash.  _ And  _ Party.” 

Even Keith, normally the quietest of the lot, actually looks intrigued at the prospect, and gives Shiro a hopeful look.

Shiro sighs, and throws up his hands. “Alright. Fine. Hunk can come to my apartment. But just to be clear, Hunk, you  _ can’t  _ tell anyone where I live. I’m in hiding for a reason.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Hunk says, miming zipping his mouth shut. “Man! I finally get to see the secret ex-Covenant apartment! You guys are all so tight-lipped. I’ve been wondering for  _ ages.”  _

That has Shiro a little worried, at first. And true to his expectations, Hunk spends his first visit snooping around the whole place. He’s excited and nervous in turns, as he digs through the kitchen cabinets, and the now well-stocked dining room that’s served as Shiro’s storage area for hunting ever since Keith took over the guest bedroom. The multitude of guns, knives, crossbows, regents, charms, and other odds and ends definitely make him uneasy, and Shiro gently warns him away from a few things that might be harmful to him, but it doesn’t deter him. Thankfully, it doesn’t make him any more frightened of Shiro, either, and Shiro’s relieved that Hunk still trusts him even around all of his instruments of killing. 

Hunk becomes a regular visitor to the apartment after that, and true to his word, he never discloses Shiro’s location to anyone not already in on the secret. It’s not uncommon for him to commandeer Shiro’s kitchen, and bring over bags of ingredients to try out his latest concoctions for all of them. Shiro’s fridge is better stocked than it’s ever been, and Hunk has a tendency to leave containers of healthy meals and leftovers behind, which both Lance and Keith are quick to ply on Shiro when he gets too involved in his work.

The Nintendo Switch has a permanent home hooked up to Shiro’s TV. It’s not unusual at all anymore for Shiro to come home from his late classes or a simple mission of Allura’s to find Hunk, Lance, and even Keith all on the couch, yelling at and taunting each other as they enthusiastically beat each other up in  _ Super Smash Brothers.  _ None of them have to hide who they are here, either. If Lance’s spines start protruding from his head and shoulders due to his enthusiasm, or Hunk takes off his headband to let his snakes slither and wiggle excitedly in the open, or Keith’s red eyes gleam like a demon’s in the cast light of the game, well, Shiro’s just glad they’re all comfortable enough in his apartment to do so. 

They get him in on the games too, sometimes. “It’s way more fun with four people,” Hunk insists, and he’s not wrong. Being surrounded by high-energy gorgons, vampires and chupacabras ought to be setting his instincts haywire, but he doesn’t feel like he’s ever in danger. Although he is still careful about getting too close to Hunk’s snakes, which all have their own brains and could potentially strike when highly stimulated.

He is  _ sorely  _ at a disadvantage against the three of them when it comes to video games, though. Especially when both Keith and Lance have preternatural reaction instincts, and Hunk’s been playing video games for years. Shiro’s not the best at the games, not when he’s never played any before now, but he does his best and he has fun. 

He looks forward to the game nights, when there are no missions and no classes, when Hunk whips up a new experimental snack for everyone to enjoy as they play. When they game into the dark hours of the night, until all of them but Keith are passed out from exhaustion. When Keith tosses blankets over the rest of them, sets Hunk’s alarm on his phone for his classes the next day, and cleans everything up. And he’s pretty sure the rest of them enjoy it, too.

Even if at least half of the reason is so the three of them can brag about how they destroyed the invincible ex-Covenant Shirogane at  _ Mario Kart.  _


	11. Gorgos stheno: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an fyi, this was written _prior_ to COVID-19 by almost an entire year, so any similarities at the start of this chapter to real-life events are entirely coincidental. They also won't stay similar to real-life events, fortunately.

“Choosing to be good means choosing to do what needs to be done even when no one appreciates it or thanks you.”  
—Sarah Zellaby,  _ The Measure of a Monster  _ _   
_ _   
_ **_In a secure undisclosed apartment in Garrison City, which is way too small for this many people_ **

But nothing can ever go perfectly, and eventually, things start to change again. 

Shiro doesn’t notice the changes at first, because it doesn’t sound all that unusual. Hunk mentions offhand during one of their game nights that almost nobody is showing up for his 8AM class anymore, so he’s not even sure if it will be held the next day. 

“I think a lot of people are getting the flu, or something,” he notes, absently. “There’s not as many people around the campus, anyway.”

“Weird time of year to get the flu,” Lance says, as he finally makes his character selection on-screen. “It’s almost spring.”

Hunk shrugs. “I dunno, but Professor Montgomery’s been sending out notes via email, so the lectures aren’t as important to get to.”

No, Shiro doesn’t think much of that. It’s a weird time of year for the flu, but illnesses happen. Sometimes, strange things happen that really are just happenstance, and not linked to the cryptid world.

He doesn’t think much of that, but he  _ does  _ know something’s wrong when Hunk calls him in a panic a few weeks later. 

They’re waiting for Hunk to show up at his apartment for dinner and another video game session when Shiro’s phone lights up with Hunk’s ringtone. The gorgon is a little late—by now it’s after dark, and even Keith is up and out of his sun daze. Shiro fully expects Hunk to simply be calling ahead citing he’ll be a few minutes, due to a late class or traffic or picking up ingredients for dinner. 

He doesn’t expect Hunk to immediately stammer over the phone, “Shiro, you—you gotta come quick, it’s bad—”

Shiro tenses immediately, sliding into his role as ex-Covenant hunter with ease. “Easy, Hunk. Slow down. What’s bad?”

“It’s bad, it’s—there’s a dead guy, it looks like he was mauled—oh geez, I don’t know what to do, there’s a lot of blood, I  _ hate  _ blood—”

“Hunk,” Shiro interrupts the rambling again, stern but not aggressive. He’s already equipping extra hidden weaponry and grabbing his coat, while Keith and Lance watch in wide-eyed alarm. “Calm down. I’m coming right now, okay? Just stay calm and tell me where you are.”

“On...on campus,” Hunk says, voice shaking. “Near the theater building, and the Niloofar Lunch Cart. Hurry...it’s bad.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. “I’m coming right now, okay? Just hang on.” He heads for the door, unsurprised when both Lance and Keith flank him. Both have extra sensitive hearing, and had probably picked up every word.

“Please don’t hang up,” Hunk says, soft and more than a little frantic. 

“I won’t, I promise. I’ll stay connected until we’re there,” Shiro says, as he heads down the stairs, Lance hot on his heels. Keith locks up behind them and catches up within heartbeats. “I’ll hand the phone off to Lance so I can drive, but I’m not gonna hang up, okay?”

“Lance is there?” Hunk says, a little hopeful.

“And Keith,” Shiro confirms. “We’re all coming, Hunk, just hold on.”

The campus isn’t that far away, and Shiro doesn’t waste time getting there. He’s heard Hunk nervous before—Hunk is a nervous person in general. But he’s never heard him so outright panicked, not even when Lance had first dragged him to meet a former Covenant agent. Whatever Hunk’s wrapped up in, it has to be bad. 

Luck is with them—he finds a parking space on the street near the building Hunk had mentioned, after Lance directs him to the general area. The three of them pile out of the car quickly, and Lance points the way to the lunch cart. 

“Go careful,” Shiro warns. He already has a hand close to one of his hidden throwing knives. “We don’t know what happened, but it sounds like an attack. The attacker might not be gone yet.” To the phone, he adds, “Hear that, Hunk? We’re here.”

“R-right,” Hunk says. He doesn’t sound much calmer, despite Shiro’s constant reassurances. “Hurry…”

They do, but they barely make it ten steps before Kieth’s head shoots up, and he curses under his breath. A second later, Lance does the same, rubber-necking madly. “Holy crap, what  _ happened  _ here?”

“What is it?” Shiro asks, frowning.

“Blood,” Keith answers curtly. “A  _ lot  _ of it. Hunk wasn’t kidding when he said it was bad.”

“Human?”

“Yeah.”

Shiro’s frown deepens. They aren’t even near the area Hunk had described yet. Keith and Lance are both pursuit hunters with noses designed for blood, but if they can smell it even this far out, it has to be bad.

It takes them a few minutes to reach Hunk, but with two blood-scenting cryptids, finding him is easy. Both Keith and Lance make a beeline for the kill, leading to a little outdoor alcove off to the side of the main grounds on the campus. It’s a neat little landscaped area with shrubs and trees and a little side flower garden that form a quiet pocket away from the main activity of the campus, with a few picnic tables and benches. It’s the sort of place that, in better weather, is a haven for introverts, quiet studious folk, or people trying to get a smoke in without being bothered. 

In any other circumstance it might have been a charming little nook. It’s anything but charming now, with the bloodied, dead body half flopped backwards over one of the benches, eyes wide and staring skyward. It’s dark, and the nearest streetlight is at least thirty feet away. But there’s just enough for Shiro to catch the reflection off the person’s eyes, and the pools of blood glimmering around them. This close, even Shiro can smell the cloying tang of iron. 

This is definitely bad.

There are two other people in the little alcove who are most definitely alive. The first is recognizable as Hunk, but the second person Shiro doesn’t know. She’s relatively tall and thickly built, with short brown hair curling around her face, and large hoop earrings that glimmer in the distant streetlight. Both of them are as far as they can get from the body while still remaining hidden in the alcove.

“Shiro!” Hunk gasps with relief, hanging up on the call and stuffing his phone away. “Oh, sweet Athena, you made it. I was so worried, and that guy is  _ dead,  _ and there’s so much blood, and I  _ hate  _ blood when it’s like this, it’s not something to cook with, it’s supposed to still be inside that guy—”

“Easy, Hunk. Calm down. I’m here.” Shiro holds up one placating hand as he draws close. Hunk is so agitated not even the calming spell on his headband is working anymore, and his snakes are starting to clip outside the illusion, twisting and hissing frantically. Bearing that in mind, Shiro stays carefully out of strike distance. Hunk wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, but his snakes aren’t exactly  _ tame,  _ and a distressed animal might strike without warning to protect itself. 

“Right,” Hunk says. He glances around at the others, and adds, “Um, thanks for coming, guys. All of you.”

“No problem, man,” Lance says, standing as close as he dares. 

Keith nods distractedly as he starts to circle the body, sniffing carefully. Of all of them, he has the best night vision and senses to start an initial examination, so Shiro lets him continue while he handles the other front.

“Alright,” Shiro says. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

“Right. The beginning. Um, it actually doesn’t start with me.” Hunk nudges the unknown girl, who’s standing surprisingly close to Hunk, considering how agitated his snakes are. “Shay here called me and said she found a body of some kind and asked for help. I came down to take a look, but I saw this and I just...knew this was  _ way  _ over my head, so…”

The girl, Shay, nods in agreement. “I found him like this perhaps forty-five minutes ago,” she says slowly. She picks each word carefully, like English isn’t her first language. “I…” She hesitates, glancing at Hunk.

“It’s okay,” Hunk says. “Shiro’s cool. He’s not Covenant anymore and he won’t hurt you.”

Shay worries her lip for a moment, but then nods. “I am an oread,” she says after a moment. “I am not worried about myself, but this is...very violent. It could be very dangerous. I do not know what could have caused this, though, so I called Hunk for help. I am not sure what to do…” 

“I understand,” Shiro says. An oread...that explained quite a lot, actually. Oreads were humanoid cryptids, sometimes called mountain nymphs in old mythologies. Their skin was as dense as granite, and they were extraordinarily strong physically, which explained both why Shay feared neither the campus attacker, nor standing too close to an agitated gorgon. Hunk’s snakes would be unlikely to pierce her skin if they struck, and even if their fangs did manage to penetrate, she was probably immune to the petrifying venom they would inject. 

It also explained why she would be hesitant to call actual emergency services, like the police. Oread could pass easily for human visually, so Shay was unlikely to be caught on campus as long as she didn’t allow other humans to touch her, and was careful about displaying her greater than average strength. But that would change drastically if she became involved in a murder case. Police would inevitably get involved even if she was innocent, and her cover would be blown quickly. 

“Did you see anything at all that might suggest what did this?” Shiro asks her.

Shay shakes her head. “No. There was no one around when I found him, and he was already dead. I investigated because I heard a yell and a thump, but no one ran past me when I came in that way.” She points at the entrance that Shiro, Lance and Keith had come through.

“Alright. Hang tight for a minute so I can take a look.” 

Shay nods nervously. Hunk pats her on the arm reassuringly, and says, “Don’t worry. Shiro’s, like,  _ really  _ good at this stuff. He’ll take care of it.” 

Shiro appreciates the vote of confidence. He’s had a few jobs for Allura since Hunk became part of their odd social group, but nothing major yet. Hunk’s faith is mostly born out of the cryptid equivalent to campfire ghost stories about the Shirogane family, and a few of Keith’s and Lance’s own retellings of some of his more recent deeds. Still, he doesn’t intend to disappoint here. 

“Keep an eye and ear out for anything odd,” he tells Lance. “Your senses are better than mine. If you do pick up on something, let me know.”

“On it,” Lance says, nodding seriously. Shiro can already see the first signs of spines protruding from the back of his head and shoulders, as he slips unconsciously a little closer to his more animal form and its increased senses.

Having a chupacabra as an early-warning system, just in case the attacker comes back, will do for now. Shiro approaches the body next, pulling out his phone to use as a flashlight.

“Careful,” Keith says shortly, as he approaches. His eyes gleam an eerie red in the glow of Shiro’s flashlight, and the rest of him is a stark silhouette in the gloom that makes the instinctive monkey brain in Shiro’s subconsciousness gibber in fear. Shiro reigns it in with long practice. “The blood is all over the place. Step over this way or you’ll start tracking it.” 

Shiro dutifully obeys, sidestepping around the blood he can only see when he swings his flashlight over it. With some help from Keith, he manages to get close enough in the dark to observe the body.

It’s not pretty. The victim is a young man—late teens or early twenties—definitely a student at the college. There’s a shredded backpack nearby, straps torn. His winter coat is shredded as well, padding ripped out everywhere, and the sports T-shirt underneath his in bloody tatters...as is most of his chest. There are gouges in his arms and hands, like he’d thrown them up to defend himself. But the killing stroke is definitely at his neck, where his throat had been torn open and crushed. The stench of blood and urine is so strong it’s enough to cause even Shiro’s stomach to flip-flop uncomfortably, and he’s had blood drinking cryptids as roommates for years.

“You okay?” Keith asks, eyeing him critically.

Shiro blinks. It takes him a long moment to realize he’s been staring, and his heart is thudding almost painfully in his chest. It’s not the first time he’s seen a corpse mauled by a wild animal, but something about the savagery of this one sends a chill up his spine. It’s violent, messy, and just a little too familiar to be natural, and a part of him immediately wants to flee before  _ they  _ come and— 

_ Don’t jump to conclusions,  _ he tells himself sharply, interrupting the thoughts before he can go too deep.  _ That doesn’t mean anything. Plenty of things could do this.  _ He shakes his head to clear away dark, frightened thoughts and distant memories of screams.

Keith is still watching him, waiting for an answer. There’s no way he missed Shiro’s hesitation, or his heartbeat. “Yeah. This one’s bad, though,” he answers, grimacing.

Keith grunts noncommittally, then says, “There’s a footprint over here. Part of one, at least. Looks animal.”

Shiro’s head snaps up. “Where? Let me see.”

Keith guides him through the dark to the edge of the blood pools, and points. “Here.”

Shiro illuminates it carefully, and his frown grows deeper. It’s a paw print of some kind. Only half of the print is marked by the edges of blood, but it’s enough to make out the top of four large toes. It’s not a  _ lot  _ to go off of, but it’s a start, and would suggest something inhuman and non-sentient. 

He wracks his brains as he scans the area, trying to come up with a cryptid that has a similar paw print. His mental search is halted as he catches sight of the edge of a second paw print, presumably from the same foot, edged with slightly less blood than before and heading for one of the secluding shrubs in the little alcove.

“See that?” he asks, shining the flashlight more heavily on the second footprint. Keith nods, and Shiro adds, “We’ve got a trail. Think you can track it?”

“Footprints made out of blood? Sure I can.” Keith’s eyes narrow.

“Good. Take Lance with you for backup. His nose can help too. If you find the killer, be careful, and try to send up a signal immediately. It attacked an unaware college kid, but that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous to a vampire and chupacabra.”

“Got it.” Keith disappears out of the edge of Shiro’s flashlight and into the dark with alarming swiftness, and a moment later Shiro hears him over near Hunk and Shay, speaking to Lance. He warns the gorgon and oread to keep an eye out, and then Shiro hears the clatter of long nails on concrete as Lance—presumably now in his fully animal form—dashes off after the eerily silent Keith. 

Shiro isn’t thrilled with sending either of them off to hunt this thing on their own. But both of them are made for tracking even minute blood trails, and he isn’t; he’d only slow them down. Lance and Keith can handle themselves on their own, and as a team he’s sure they’ll be okay. They still bicker like cats and dogs, but they know how to work together where it counts.

He goes back to studying the body carefully, taking pictures as he does. The student hadn’t been eaten; he’s been mauled violently, but it doesn’t appear to be because the killer intended him as a food source. It’s possible Shay had interrupted the creature before it could feed, but Shiro thinks that’s unlikely. Any cryptid animal willing to make a kill like this in the relative openness of a college campus wouldn’t be driven off by a single person showing up. If anything, it would have attempted to make Shay a second meal. 

That’s not a good sign. It means the kill was made not out of necessity—food or protection—but for sport, or with intent. The first implies a natural maliciousness that’s always dangerous; something that kills just because it can isn’t predictable. The second implies willful intelligence, which is even more frightening.

The kill is strange, too, in that it’s messy. Blood is everywhere, spattered over the ground and the bench the body is leaning against. The killing blow is clumsy-looking, the throat crushed and torn in multiple places, like the attacker hadn’t known where to latch on. 

It’s unusual. Most predators have efficient means to dispatch their prey out of necessity. In the wild, messy kills that take a long time cost valuable levels of energy that the animal might not be able to replenish after eating, and it’s always possible the prey animal can give as good as it gets before dying. Whatever did this is either unpracticed, lacks control, or had willingly drawn out the kill for whatever reason. None of those things are good.

But strangest of all are the markings. Between the killing blow, the gouges in the young man’s body, and the pawprint…

_ No. No no no. It doesn’t have to be  _ that.  _ There’s still so many other options. Don’t panic. Not yet.  _

“Do you know what happened?” Hunk asks nervously, drawing closer. He’s careful to keep his distance from both the blood, and from Shiro. Considering his snakes are still hissing in agitation, and a few are curled into strike positions, Shiro appreciates the distance. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear this was a wildcat attack,” Shiro says. 

“A wildcat?” Hunk asks, incredulous. “What, like a mountain lion or something?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “Or something. You won’t find mountain lions in Garrison City...not unless one escaped from a zoo. That print isn’t big enough to be a bobcat, and jaguars aren’t native to the area.” 

“What about...y’know... _ undocumented  _ cats?” Hunk asks nervously. “Like manticores? Manticores have cat feet, right?”

“If it was a manticore, it wouldn’t have stopped at mauling one person,” Shiro says grimly. “It also would have a much bigger footprint.”

Hunk gulps. “Oh.” He glances over at the footprint. “How do you even know it’s cat-ish? What if it’s like...a rabid pet dog, or something?”

Shiro gestures absently to the footprint. “No claw tips. Wildcats, cryptid or otherwise, retract their claws. Canines can’t.”

Hunk stares at him incredulously. “How do you know these things?”

“Many years of training.” Shiro keeps snapping pictures as he talks. “Still, I’m not sure exactly what this is yet. I’ll need to consult some of my field guides and journals. But you were right to call me on this. This definitely isn’t normal.” 

Shay steps up nervously as well. “What do we do?”

“Go home,” Shiro says. “I’m sure Hunk would be happy to walk you back.” At this point, he’s not concerned about Shay being involved in this murder. Oread are typically slow to anger, and if she had wanted to kill this victim, it would have involved a lot more smashing and crushing. “As far as you’re concerned, you weren’t here. Once you two are in the clear, I’ll have Allura call in an anonymous tip through her connections in the police force.” 

Because there’s no way this can be covered up. Not on a busy college campus. If it’s a wild animal, or a wild cryptid, people need to know to stay off the campus at night. Even if it is an attack with willful intent, people being on their guard for an assault, or traveling in groups, could make all the difference. Even human students and professors unaware of the cryptid community need a way to stay safe. 

But Shiro does want to make sure Hunk and Shay aren’t dragged into it. And he’d rather not be involved himself. He does have one or two connections of his own in the police force, but the police  _ do  _ start to question if the same civilian shows up repeatedly around their strangest homicide cases. Shiro doesn’t need that kind of attention either. 

“You’re sure?” Hunk asks nervously. 

“I’m sure,” Shiro promises. “Hunk, once you get her back home, go to your own dorm and stay there. Game night is cancelled, sorry. I’ve got work to do.”

“Yeah...yeah,” Hunk says, shakey. “That...that makes sense. Okay. Can...can I call tomorrow? See how things are going?”

“Sure,” Shiro says. “I’ll keep you in the loop, I promise.”

“Thanks. Be careful, Shiro.” 

“Always.” 

“Goodbye, and thank you,” Shay adds. Shiro nods to her as well, before the two disappear off into the dark. They should be fine—their dorms aren’t far, and they’re two strong types of cryptids primed and ready for an encounter. If anything, Shiro, now alone without backup, is the more attractive target.

That’s not ideal, so Shiro finally quits snapping pictures, and slides back into a stand, ready to fling a knife at a moment’s notice. There’s nothing else he can do here as it currently stands. It’s too dark for him to try and look for the killer, or any additional clues, and he needs time to review his journals.

Besides, with the way this student was mauled...it just feels too  _ familiar.  _ He doesn’t want to be caught unawares out here on his own, not if those things were responsible—

_ Stop. It isn’t. Any number of animals could have done this. It’s important to remain vigilant for  _ any  _ of them. _

As if in response to his thoughts, a voice comes out of the darkness to his right. “We lost it.”

Shiro barely holds back a curse, and an instinctively flung knife, as Keith’s gleaming red eyes materialize out of the gloom. His outward response is non-existent, but Keith can clearly hear the way his heart jumps reflexively, because he mutters, “Sorry. Forgot you can’t see as well in the dark.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says curtly, willing his heart to slow. He’s too jumpy right now, and while Keith is very good at stealth, that shouldn’t have caught Shiro as unawares as it did. “You mean you lost the trail?”

Keith nods as Lance, in his spiky lizard-dog form, scuttles up next to him and prowls watchfully around the area. “There was a blood trail, but it gets weaker as the blood gets left behind on the ground. It goes about two blocks that way off campus, but then it gets to a high traffic area. Lots of people smells, lots of different kinds of blood, lots of other scents to mask it...cars, human food, the works. Neither of us could trail it further.” 

Shiro sighs. It had been a long shot, to hope they could track the killer down so easily. According to Shay’s report, the body had been there for at least forty-five minutes before they’d even arrived. The killer would have been long gone by now. Still, it had been worth a try.

“That’s alright,” he says finally. “We’ll study up tonight, and I’ll come back tomorrow and see if I can dig up a few more clues in the daylight.” 

Keith makes a face at that. “Daylight. Ugh. I won’t be able to help.”

“Sorry, buddy. I know you hate getting benched. I promise we won’t get killed in the interim.” He glances over at the creeping chupacabra circling the area, and adds, “Lance, change back to human form. If people catch sight of a spikey dog in the area, they’re going to assume you did this.”

Lance immediately shifts back to his humanoid form with a scowl. “Not again! Why do people always think  _ I  _ did it? Keith could kill the guy too, he’s got fangs.”

“Vampires don’t use their fangs to maul people,” Shiro says immediately, before a scowling Keith can retort. Lance isn’t completely wrong—Keith  _ is  _ also capable of this level of carnage, if he so chose. But it would be more along the lines of ‘literally tearing someone’s arm off’ than this clumsy murder. “Whatever killed this was some kind of animal, and you’d be the only animal-looking thing visible. People will make the connection, even if it’s wrong.” 

Lance looks distinctly sullen about it, but mutters, “Yeah, well, they’re dumb. And at least  _ I  _ can come back and help you tomorrow morning.” 

Keith’s glare is poisonous. “I would—”

“There’s nothing else we can do here,” Shiro interrupts, before the two of them can get into it at a murder scene, with a potential killer still out there. “We’ll head back tonight. Lance—if you’re backing me up tomorrow, you should head to bed early. Keith, if you’re up to it, I’d like your help combing through the old Covenant journals and field guides to see if we can find this thing. I want to be as prepared as possible tomorrow.” 

“Yeah...I can help with that,” Keith says, at least somewhat mollified by the idea of being able to help at all. Lance seems satisfied at the prospect of being Shiro’s main backup tomorrow, enough to quit bickering with Keith, and the three of them head out.

Once they’re clear, Shiro is quick to call Allura. It’s only early evening, maybe two hours past dark by now, so Allura is still up and active. She seems quietly perplexed by the story, but dutifully promises to notify the police anonymously of the attack, and start reaching out to her contacts in the community to see if there’s any news about attacks or mishaps going on. 

“I will call immediately if I find anything,” she promises. “This cannot be permitted to stand, or the Covenant will be on our doorstep before long.”

“I agree,” Shiro says. “I’ll let you know what I find, too.” 

With game night officially cancelled and murder on their minds, the evening isn’t nearly as fun as any of them had originally been hoping for. Lance cleans up the living room game setup, putting the games and controllers away, and then curls up on the torn couch to nod off early. Chupacabra are diurnal, and if Lance is expected to play backup against an enemy capable of mauling an adult male human to death, he’ll need to rest up. 

Shiro is  _ also  _ diurnal, but he’s got a long night ahead of him, and he’s used to late nights and early mornings. He digs out the old journals and field guides he’d stolen from the Covenant years ago, and his own journal and laptop with his more recent discoveries and observations after starting to integrate into the cryptid community, and spreads them all out on the kitchen table. Keith joins him, with a tupperware container of Hunk’s leftovers warmed up for Shiro, and a blood pack for himself, and they settle down for a long night of researching.

It’s slow going. Shiro actually enjoys reading up on cryptid information, and pursuing the old journals or his newer notes is often an interesting way for him to kill a few hours on a rainy day. The Covenant journals can be problematic, sometimes—they have more to say about how to kill certain kinds of cryptids than they do about culture, ecosystems, or diplomatic means of engaging with other creatures. But there is still plenty of information about cryptid abilities, skills, known locations, and historical reports of sightings and murders attributed to them. 

Unfortunately, it takes some reading between the lines to extrapolate that sort of information, which means it takes time. Plus, not all of the journals are in English. The Shirogane clan has long preserved its own history and records of cryptid information and kills, even before they joined the Covenant, but all of it is recorded in Japanese. Others are in Latin, German, French and Spanish, some in dialects from hundreds of years ago. Shiro’s been working on creating translated copies of everything to English, but it’s a years long project that’s nowhere near finished. 

So researching is slow going. Shiro takes the Japanese volumes, while Keith pores over the English ones, and some of the pages Lance had helped translate from Spanish. Shiro is accustomed to sitting for long hours at a time reading and taking notes, but Keith is antsy about it, and frequently gets up to pace around the room just for an opportunity to move. Keith’s always been better at action and instinct than this sort of thing.

But they do make some progress. Between them, they manage to compile a list of feline-like cryptids, any of which has the potential to just maybe be responsible for this attack. Sphinx, mngwa, tatzelwurm, ozark howlers, chimeras, even the questing beasts—despite having no Covenant or cryptid sightings in over a hundred years—all make the list. Notes are taken on each one, as well as its habits, hunting patterns, common locations, and, in the case of the first two, their cultures. 

It’s a reasonable list to work with, and Shiro researches it diligently. Still, none of it feels like it quite fits, not in his gut. All of them are potential suspects—the intelligent ones could be living in the city, and the simple animal cryptids could have easily wandered here or been set loose on purpose—but none of them feel _right._ And Shiro has learned to trust his gut as much as anything else. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.

He still takes the notes. But he can’t get the savagery of that murder out of his mind’s eye, or shake that crawling familiarity and those distant screams and scents of blood out of his head. And as much as he doesn’t want to, as much as he wills himself to remember it  _ could  _ be any of these cryptids, he prepares himself for the possibility that their killer isn’t any of them at all.

By three in the morning, Shiro’s starting to have trouble focusing, and Keith finally kicks him out of the kitchen. “Go to bed,” he orders. “I’ve got nothing else I can do to help with this, I’ll finish reading through what I can. If you find this thing tomorrow you need to be rested enough to deal with it.” 

Shiro hates leaving a job unfinished, but Keith does have a point. So he nods, yawning, and excuses himself from the table. “Leave out whatever else you find and I’ll look it over tomorrow morning before we head out.”

“Will do,” Keith promises, pulling one of the next journals closer. 

It shouldn’t be as easy as it is to fall asleep after witnessing that murder victim. But it’s not Shiro’s first murder case, and he’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow. His sleep is hardly  _ restful— _ his dreams are unsettling, full of blood and shredded bodies, some caused by an unknown creature prowling the dark, some from the past, others caused by himself—but they aren’t his first bad dreams, either. He muddles through somehow, and wakes the next morning around eight, not exactly feeling  _ great  _ but at least better than he had at three in the morning.

Lance meets him, sipping on a glass of warmed pig’s blood while looking over their notes from last night. “Morning,” he greets. “You guys found a lot of stuff. D’you think any of these things are actually what we’re looking for?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping we get some better ideas after looking the place over this morning,” Shiro admits honestly. He glances over Keith’s extra notes from after he’d gone to bed. He’d found a few other things, but most were too small, or unlikely to be in the area, like cactus cats. 

The note about kitsune makes his heart ice over a little— _ known shapeshifters and illusionists, could misdirect?— _ and he really hopes  _ that  _ one doesn’t turn out to be true either. Most cryptids distrusted him for his surname, but kitsune, along with other yōkai _ ,  _ had a special place in their hearts for sheer hatred of the Shirogane clan. They had good reason. His ancestors had been directly responsible for the eradication of dozens of types of Japanese cryptids, and the near-extinction of others. If the killer is a kitsune he’ll do what he has to, but it certainly won’t look good, and they definitely won’t attempt to communicate with him at all.

“Well, I’m good to go as soon as I finish this,” Lance says, holding up his glass of pig’s blood. 

“Good. I’ll just grab something from the food cart when we get there. It does breakfast, right?”

Lance eyes him sideways. “Yeah, but Hunk’s gonna lecture you real good. It’s all junk.”

“I’ll live. Let me arm up and we’ll head out.”

Ten minutes later, with Lance comfortably full and Shiro armed to the teeth, the two of them pile into his car again and head back to the murder site. Shiro has a field kit stored in his car for situations just like this, and he snags the backpack out of the trunk, hefting it over one shoulder. Hopefully, it helps disguise him a little better on the campus. He’s only just turned twenty-four...at best only a couple years older than the seniors, and he doesn’t think he looks  _ that  _ much older than everyone else.

In the light of day, the body is long gone. The little alcove is blocked off with police tape, and a narrow-faced security guard keeps careful watch to ensure nobody crosses the line. A few dozen students and what Shiro assumes are a few professors ring the area with expressions ranging from nervous to curious to openly suspicious. One of the professors, an older looking gentleman with thick mutton-chops straight out of a civil war photograph, even glares at Shiro with open, hostile wariness, as though  _ he’s  _ the one responsible for this mess. Other students give Shiro equally confused or wary looks, and he realizes he probably looks more out of place on the campus than he’d thought.

“Ryou!” 

Shiro turns automatically, long used to reacting to his cover name. Hunk hustles over to them through the crowd, with Shay in tow.

“Hunk,” Shiro greets, giving him a careful once over. Hunk seems calmer this morning, which is fortunate. His illusion and headband are safely in place, and Shiro doesn’t hear any tell-tale hissing. 

It does say a lot that Hunk’s wearing glasses this morning, though, rather than his usual contacts. The lenses are polarized to keep anyone from accidentally being stunned by his gaze...but more importantly, they’re faster to remove than contacts. Hunk’s not pulling any punches. He knows there’s something dangerous out there, and he’s prepared to fight back, if it comes to it. 

Good. 

“Do you know what happened here?” Shiro asks, as though he doesn’t already know. With so many students milling about, it would be stupid to act as though he’d already seen the damage.

Hunk blinks in confusion for a moment, but then seems to pick up on the trick. “Oh! Someone was attacked last night. Scary, right? The campus and city police are both saying it’s a rabid dog of some kind. Animal Control’s already been called and they’re keeping an eye out...but they cancelled classes for today, and they’re telling people to stay indoors or keep an eye out if they go outside. No petting dogs or anything if you see’em.” 

“Smart move,” Shiro agrees, although his stomach does an odd flip-flop at the mention of rabies. It’s a reasonable guess to make, but the implications of that...

He does catch Hunk’s significant look at the word  _ dog.  _ They both know it’s not a dog, but humans not aware of crypid society will do their best to explain away the unbelievable. At least people are being cautious, now, and the ‘dog’ story won’t call the Covenant down on them.

“So you have free time then?” Lance asks. “If your classes were cancelled? You could come get breakfast with us. Shiro hasn’t eaten yet.”

Normally, Shiro would be irritated at Lance throwing him under the bus like that. But it’s actually smart thinking on his part, giving Hunk a valid excuse to hang around them for the time being, so Shiro lets it pass. Hunting whatever this is will go faster with three sets of eyes...figuratively speaking, anyway, since Hunk has significantly more eyes than the rest of them. 

The civil war professor glares at them over the heads of the students. “Really? A man is dead, and you have the gall to discuss going out for breakfast? This is no holiday. It’s serious.” 

Hunk winces. “Right. Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

The professor harrumphs, but before the argument can be taken further, the security guard watching the taped off area intervenes. “Alright,” the narrow-faced officer says, making shooing motions. “Move along. The man is right, this isn’t a place for sight-seeing. Get indoors and stay safe.” 

The crowd grumbles and chatters amongst themselves, but dutifully disperses. Shiro, Lance, Hunk, and Shay head off as a group, and Shiro says low under his breath, “Lance—head in the direction of the trail you and Keith were following last night. I want to see if there’s anything to work with.” 

“Sure.” Lance steers them in a meandering enough way it doesn’t look suspicious to anyone watching them, but does lead them gradually in the right direction. “Hey, Hunk—what’s eating that guy?”

“Hmm?”

“That professor—the one with the ridiculous mutton chops,” Shiro says.

“Oh, him.” Hunk winces. “He’s not a professor, actually. He’s some big important buyer or something. Garrison U’s engineering program has a sort of...project apprenticeship thing for juniors and seniors. Businesses get discounted engineering work and students get some practical experience on projects for their resumes.” He shrugs. “I’m just a freshman, so I don’t know much about the project. I don’t even remember that guy’s name, I just know everyone complains he’s a real uptight bastard.”

“They’re not wrong,” Lance grumbles. Shay nods nervously in agreement. 

They wander away from the campus, like they’re heading for one of the parking lots. But once they’re out of sight of the security guard and the gaggle of dispersing students and teachers, Lance takes a sharp right. 

“The trail went this way last night,” he says, leading them to a nearby four-way intersection with a diner, a beauty salon, and a discount textbook exchange store. “Keith and I followed it up to...here.” He gestures to the edge of the road, near one of the busy intersection’s crosswalks. “But we lost it around this point. I can’t catch it at all today, too many people have walked past since.” 

Shiro surveys the area. “Not great,” he admits. “They could’ve crossed the street, although it was only early evening last night...somebody might have still seen them, even in the dark. This is a busy area. Lots of headlights and streetlamps. Somebody might have seen something.”

“And if they did not?” Shay asks, nervous. 

“Then whatever or whoever did this is very good at evading notice,” Shiro says, “which would be unusual, since they didn’t bother to hide killing that student last night, or drawing attention to themselves with the kill at all. Or it means they had another way of disappearing.”

“Like, what...a getaway driver waiting or something?” Hunk asks, glancing around at the cars.

“That...or  _ that.”  _ Shiro points at the manhole cover nearby, and another not too far away down their side of the street. 

Hunk shudders. “ _ Oh.”  _

“Yeah.” 

“We’re not going down there now, are we?” Hunk asks, hunching his shoulders nervously and worrying his hands close to his chest. Even with the illusion of hair still firmly in place, Shiro can imagine his crown of snakes curling protectively around his neck and shoulders.

Shiro shakes his head. “Not yet. The sewers and the underground tunnel systems are dangerous enough as is without an unknown enemy wandering around in them to contend with. I want to know what we’re messing with before we try that.”

“Oh,  _ good,”  _ Hunk says, relieved. “Then before we do anything else, how about we do what we actually said we were gonna? To, y’know...not make people suspicious, or whatever.” He points across the street to Vrepit Sal’s Diner, with a sign in the window indicating breakfast is served until two pm. 

Shiro’s not thrilled at the prospect of interrupting a hunt for something as mundane as eating, but Lance and Hunk are both giving him hopeful and simultaneously watchful looks, and he doesn’t think he’s getting out of it. Besides—this close, it probably has a fair number of student patrons, and other locals. Maybe somebody heard of something related to the case.

They cross the street to the diner, and are lucky enough to get a booth right away. Lance orders just a coffee to pretend to drink—which Shiro periodically takes a swig from, just so the waitress doesn’t get suspicious—but the rest of them order actual breakfasts. The food is actually pretty decent—”Sal’s a nice guy,” Hunk informs them, “I even taught him a trick or two for cooking,”—but the real reward is the information, as far as Shiro’s concerned. 

“More students, huh?” A haggard, middle-aged waitress comments, as she takes their orders. “There’s a lot of you today. Cancelled classes, right? We never get a rush like this at this time.” 

“Yes,” Shay says meekly. 

“There was an attack over on the campus,” Lance offers, eyes gleaming and ready to gossip. “It was pretty bad, I heard.”

“So did I,” the waitress says. “Everyone’s telling the same story. Not what I expected to hear when I came to work this morning! That poor boy...I’m sure his family will be upset. I hope they find the idiot who let his rabid dog loose and put him in jail.”

It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. “You didn’t hear anything at all until this morning?” Shiro presses. If the killer really had come by this area…

“Not for that, hon,” the waitress tells him, as she collects their laminated menus. “I thought we had it exciting around here yesterday with a nasty racoon getting into the garbage. I told Sal I weren’t takin’ the trash out until the awful thing was gone, it scared me. Doesn’t hold a candle to murder, though. I don’t think a raccoon could’ve done that to a college kid.” She smiles at them wearily. “I’ll get your orders in right now.”

Shiro listens in on a few other conversations, and so does Lance with his superior hearing. But the waitress’ news is by far the most interesting. The death is the talk of the hour among the breakfasting students around them, but no one else has anything to add that they don’t already know. 

The news around the racoon shouldn’t even be all that interesting, either, but something in Shiro’s gut tells him to check it out. He’d wanted clues, and there’s nothing else to lose.

So after he pays the check, leaving a hefty cash tip for the tired waitress, he and the others circle around the side of the building to the diner’s dumpster. It’s full of day-old food and a regular smorgasbord to all the critters living on the streets, so he’s not surprised to hear they have raccoon problems. 

“You don’t really think a raccoon could’ve done that, do you?” Hunk asks skeptically.

“I could take care of it if you do,” Lance offers brightly. “I love raccoon.”

“Not exactly,” Shiro says, as he gingerly shoves open the dumpster half full of old diner food. “But the prevailing ‘normal’ theory  _ is  _ rabies, and raccoons are common carriers. The waitress said it was acting aggressive. If we find one carrier, it’s possible it either bit or was bitten by whatever made the kill last night.” 

“Oh.” Lance considers this. “I guess I shouldn’t eat it, if it’s got rabies.”

“ _ Please  _ don’t,” Shiro says. “Nobody knows enough about chupacabra biology to know if you’re immune like a reptile or susceptible like a mammal, and I would  _ really  _ prefer to not have to kill you.”

“Yeah, I’d kind of prefer that too,” Lance says, wincing. 

Banter aside, rabies  _ would  _ explain a few things. The aggressiveness of the kill, for one, and the way it clearly hadn’t been made out of hunger or self defense. It might also explain why any number of feline-like cryptids might come out of the safety of their regularly scheduled hunting patterns and grounds to run wild across a human-dominated campus. Cryptids weren’t immune to perfectly normal diseases and viruses just because most of the world didn’t think they existed. 

But that sick churning in Shiro’s gut is only getting worse now. Between his own hypothesis of a feline attacker of some kind—but nothing on the compiled list feeling right—and the discussion of rabid attacks, there’s a frightening little suspicion beginning to form at the back of his mind at what the culprit might be. The familiarity of the attack, the sheer savagery...he’d dealt with something like it once before, years ago, when he’d still been with the Covenant. No matter how much he tries to convince himself it  _ can’t  _ be, some of the details are alarmingly identical.

_The sound of pounding paws and scraping claws everywhere. There had to be more than a dozen—so many, too many. The growls and snarls, the shrieks of pain, the sickening_ snap-crack _of shifting bone. Blood, blood, blood everywhere,_ everywhere, _too much, nothing spread that much blood for any good reason, how many victims had there even been?_ _Shredded and torn, dismembered and chewed to pulp, it’s impossible to even tell anymore._ _Flashing teeth, glittering, hungry, wild eyes, hot breath, close, too close,_ too close— _shoot and shoot and shoot and shoot and shoot until it’s dead, dead, dead, don’t let it touch you don’t let_ any _of them touch you, it’s wrong, wrong,_ wrong—

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Thankfully, it goes unnoticed by his friends.

Yes...everything is too similar. And yet he’s never hoped so badly that he’d be wrong.

_ Please,  _ let him be wrong.

The dumpster is as disgusting as anticipated, full of half eaten, rotting food from the past few days of dining. Several rodents scatter as Shiro finally shoves the lid all the way up, and peers into its confines.

“Dumpster diving,” he mutters to himself. The banter is routine, and keeps that anxious little worry in the back of his head at bay. “Just another glamorous part of the ex-Covenant lifestyle.” Louder, he calls, “Hunk, Shay—keep an eye on the street, let me know if anyone’s looking a little too curious. Lance—use that nose to help me find any trace of that raccoon.”

“What do we say if people are interested?” Shay asks, frowning.

“Tell them Lance lost his retainer or something when we were eating here last night,” Shiro says. “We’re trying to find it.”

Lance scowls. “Like I need one of those! And even if I  _ did  _ I wouldn’t be that stupid!” 

“Just roll with it, Lance,” Shiro says. “Can you find that raccoon?”

Lance grumbles under his breath. “Keith never has to go digging through garbage on  _ his  _ missions....”

As it turns out, they don’t have to look far. The raccoon doesn’t have much of a trail, because it’s dead in the second dumpster, half covered by trash bags, grease drippings, and other  _ lovely  _ by-products of the diner. Shiro retrieves a pair of latex gloves from the field kit in his backpack and carefully removes the critter, laying it out flat behind the dumpster where he and Lance can crouch without being immediately visible from the street. 

“Woah,” Lance hisses in surprise, once he gets a good look at the dead animal. “What happened to it? I’ve never seen a ‘coon like that before.” 

Shiro presses his lips together, and doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pokes at the deep gash splitting down the back of the creature’s body neatly at its spine, exposing bone and muscle. 

It looked as though the animal had split like a sausage casing, its insides ripping out as it popped open from behind. The spine is twisted and broken unnaturally, the fur near the split skin paler and creamier, the belly distended and swollen. The unique little raccoon hand-paws had half-formed curled claws, and when he gently levers its jaw open, the teeth are longer and sharper than they should be. Worst of all, when he carefully thumbs one of its closed eyelids open, the eye is a clouded amber instead of a raccoon’s beady black.

“Shit,” Shiro whispers. His gut instinct had been right on the money. “ _ Shit.  _ I did not want to be right about this.” 

_ Howling shrieks, rabid yowls, crackling bones, stumbling misshapen paws. Hungry and wild, saliva dribbling in ropes around its jaws, eyes on him. Trapped. Fight back or be part of the mess. Shoot and shoot and shoot and shoot— _

At least he knows exactly what they’re dealing with. 

He just wishes he didn’t.


	12. Gorgos stheno: Part Three

“There’s no such thing as a ‘good’ werewolf.”  
—Alex Price, _Pocket Apocalypse_

**_In the Altean Penthouse, trying really really hard to not panic_ **

“Lycanthropy,” Allura says slowly.

“Yes,” Shiro answers, carefully examining the dead animal on the clean observation table.

“So like...werewolves?” Lance asks, disbelieving.

“No,” Shiro says, cautiously prodding one of the wounds while wearing a pair of gloves.

“I’m so confused,” Hunk moans.

Shiro sighs, pausing in his examination of the animal. It’s just over an hour after discovering the dead raccoon. He’d wrapped the creature up as carefully as he could in several clean trash bags for transport. There was only one place he could think of safe enough to both keep people or scavengers from exposure, and study it closer without getting strange looks on the street: Allura’s penthouse. Her quarters had a neatly stocked medical room for emergencies, where people could be treated and, if necessary, receive healing from her. It served just as well for impromptu autopsies. 

Lance and Hunk had both insisted on coming with him, curious and alarmed at his discovery. Shay had opted to stay on campus. “Someone must be here to keep an eye on things, if something goes wrong or the creature returns,” she’d stated. “I do not fear these creatures. But I will alert you if something changes.” 

It had been a sensible suggestion, so they’d let her head back to the campus, and Shiro had rushed to Allura’s as soon as possible. The faster his suspicions were confirmed, the faster they could deal with the problem. Introductions were made between Hunk, Allura, Coran, and an entire congregation of mice, and then Shiro had immediately gotten to work. 

Unfortunately, explaining that work is a little...complicated.

“Lycanthropy isn’t a cryptid, it’s a virus similar to rabies,” Shiro explains, as patiently as he can, while trying to fight down his own gradual panic. Lycanthropy is dangerous, as he knows from brutal, bloody first-hand experience. If they didn’t deal with this fast, an outbreak would not only be inevitable, it could be _deadly._ “Werewolves aren’t a species...lycanthropy- _w_ is just a very common strain of the lycanthropy virus. Others are more common in other countries. In Africa lycanthropy- _h_ is more common, and the source of most werehyena myths.” 

“And this isn’t the ‘w’ version?” Hunk asks slowly.

“I don’t think so,” Shiro says, as he goes back to work examining the dead raccoon. “Remember what I said last night? All the hallmarks of a feline attack. I’m guessing we’re talking either lycanthropy- _t_ or lycanthropy- _l_...that’s tiger or lion,” he adds, at their confused looks. “I’m guessing lion, based on the fur coloration here. More tawny than orange, no stripes.” He runs a gloved finger carefully over the paler coloration of the fur around the spinal gash.

“So...werelions,” Lance sums up, making a face.

“Basically.” Shiro frowns. “But I don’t understand where it came from. Lycanthropy- _l_ is rare, even for this virus.” How could a carrier have even gotten into Garrison? 

“What does this mean for my city?” Allura asks promptly.

Shiro gives her a serious look. “It’s...bad. If we don’t get to the source of this fast, it’s _very_ bad. I’ve only dealt with lycanthropy once, when I was still with the Covenant. There was a big outbreak of lycanthropy- _w_ in northern France. At least fifteen specimens, and potential for dozens of other carriers. It was all hands on deck, even for cadets like me. It’s something I’ll never be able to forget.” 

He swallows, and for just a moment, closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose to try and stave off the bloody memories. They’d found where most of the werewolves had originated from, and where they were hiding. They hadn’t all been human carriers, and that made tracking and killing some them even more difficult. 

They’d also found the victims. They’d never been able to properly identify just how many bodies there had been—they’d been so violently shredded and scattered it was impossible to pick all of the pieces apart. The walls, ceiling, floor, furniture—everything had been painted rust red with dried blood. 

He’d been cornered by two of the lycanthropes, and had nearly become a part of the gory mess. Two other agents had been bitten and had taken their own lives to keep the infection from spreading.

He’d been sixteen at the time. The event was burned into his memory for the rest of his life with crystal clear detail.

When he opens his eyes again, the others are staring at him. He shakes his head slightly, focusing again. When he continues, he’s as clinical and detached as he can make himself be. “ _Anything_ mammalian is susceptible to lycanthropy. Humans, other mammalian cryptids, cats, dogs...raccoons.” He points to the animal he’s examining. 

“Anything that eats the flesh or blood of an infected animal can potentially be infected itself. That applies to scavengers and smaller animals, too—even if they’re not a threat to actually transforming, they’re still carriers. And anything the size or weight of an adult human or bigger has the potential to turn into a wild, uncontrollable animal about twenty-eight days after it’s been infected.”

“What, no full moon?” Hunk asks, frowning.

“Complete fallacy,” Shiro says, shaking his head. “The lunar cycle and the incubation period happen to be similar, so people draw conclusions that are wrong. They can transform day or night, at any point, after the incubation period is up. At which point, they won’t be in control of their actions anymore, and there’s no telling what they’ll do—other than something extremely violent.” 

“Like maul a student on a college campus,” Coran says solemnly, shaking his head.

“This is...difficult to understand. I have never heard of such a thing in Garrison, before,” Allura says, frowning. Her wings draw closer to herself, almost defensively, as though shielding herself from the unknown.

On her shoulder, one of the Aeslin mice—the blue one, her own personal devotiary—squeaks, “Lion Goddess! There was a Great Battle in the time of the God of Great Healing and Greater Science’s reign, against the Mindless Ones.”

Coran frowns. “Alfor fought werewolves?”

Another mouse, streaked with red paint—a priest of the order of Alfor, Allura’s father—stands upright proudly, holding its little paws together. “It is So!” it squeaks. “It was many Aeslin generations before the High Priest of Damn It Stop Trying To Get Yourself Killed found his faith in the God of Great Healing and Greater Science. Our God was still a young God and sought to Heal the Mindless Ones with His Great and Holy Power.” The mouse’s ears droop sadly. “Alas, even the power of a God cannot heal the Mindless Ones.”

“But we know the Scent of them,” a yellow-dyed mouse says solemnly. “The rot-stench of rabies, but sweeter. We know the danger of them. Many lives were Lost.”

“The God of Great Healing and Greater Science drove the Mindless Ones from His domain,” a green-dyed mouse finishes. “With the aid of other High Priests that had Faith in Him. But there was much death.”

Lance frowns. “Can somebody translate?”

“My father encountered a lycanthropy outbreak years ago, before he even met Coran,” Allura summarizes. “He and some others stopped it, but only by killing the aggressors. And it sounds like it cannot be healed, not even with my powers. That is...unfortunate.”

“There are other methods,” Shiro says. “No cure, as far as I know. But there is a tincture that can be administered after a bite and prior to transformation that could—maybe—prevent infection.”

“Only maybe?” Hunk asks.

“It’s also just as liable to kill them,” Shiro admits. “Amongst other things, one of the ingredients is liquid mercury. Another is aconite, which is extremely toxic to most mammals.” 

“Ouch,” Lance mutters, wincing. “Better not get bit.”

“You most of all, Lance. In fact, it would be better if you stay benched for the rest of this mission,” Shiro says seriously, as he turns the racoon over carefully. If he can find the source of the bite…

“What? No way! You can’t expect me to just sit back and do _nothing_ after learning there’s _werelions_ running around on a college campus,” Lance snaps. “It sounds like this is bad. You need all hands on deck.”

“Not if it risks you, Lance, and you’re more liable to be hurt by this than anybody else,” Shiro says, halting his examination again to look Lance square in the eye. “As far as anybody can tell, lycanthropy first originated from therianthropes. Shape-changing cryptids would get sick, probably with a strain of rabies, and when they bit non-shape changing mammals...eventually, it stuck. There’s only a small chance most of us would get infected if we got bitten, but that chance gets a lot bigger for you. I’m not risking it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not risking any of _you_ getting mauled to death, either,” Lance says, eyes narrowed. “I can be smart about it and not bite them or anything. I’d love to see them _try_ to bite _me,_ when I’m covered in spikes. But I’m not backing down. You _need_ me on this.” 

“You don’t know what they’re capable of, Lance.” Shiro shakes his head, frustrated, remembering again that red-drenched room. “I’ve _seen_ it. It’s not—”

“If we already know it’s werelions, what exactly are you looking for on that guy, Shiro?” Hunk interrupts, gesturing at the raccoon. “And what... _happened_ to it, anyway?”

Shiro gratefully allows himself to be diverted before his mind can go down the path of those dark memories again, breaking his staredown with Lance. “I’m looking for a bite scar of some kind. If I can figure out what bit it, I can try to figure out who caused it, or at least how big a threat we’re dealing with.” He sighs. “But the body’s so messed up and the skin’s so torn apart I can’t find anything easily. Allura...do you think Ryner can take a look at this as soon as possible?”

Allura frowns. “I can ask her. Her specialty is cryptid flora, but…”

“I’ll take any biologist over none at all. If she can verify the lycanthropy strain, and maybe where it came from, so much the better.” Shiro shakes his head, carefully bagging up the animal for further transfer. “As for what happened...it’s too small to succeed in transforming. Not enough mass. The first transformation killed it. I’d wager some of its organs ruptured, and the spinal restructuring definitely failed halfway.”

Hunk looks a little green at the thought. “Oh,” he says meekly.

“What do you mean?” Lance asks, confused. “Transforming doesn’t do... _that._ I do it all the time, and I’ve never ruptured anything.”

“Yes, but you’re designed for it by evolution,” Shiro says patiently. “A raccoon’s organs and bones aren’t meant to reshape themselves. The same goes for a human or other cryptid mammal that’s been bitten...we’re not made for that kind of strain. Lycanthrope victims die just as often from ruptured hearts and warped bones as they do from being shot down or killed in fights.”

“Oh.” Now it’s Lance’s turn to look a little green. “I hadn’t thought of that. Lycanthropy sucks.”

“If this is so dangerous, what can we do to prevent it?” Allura asks, frowning.

Shiro considers. “We need to find patient zero, if possible,” he says. “And anyone else they may have come into contact with. Anyone or any _thing_ that’s been bitten needs to be put under observation. We won’t know for certain if they’re infected until twenty-eight days after their first bite or fluid transfer, but we can’t risk them undergoing a transformation and biting even more people.” 

“That’s a big list,” Coran says, frowning. “Not just people in the cryptid community. Civilians may have been in contact without realizing it, especially if patient zero has been hunting on a crowded college campus. And that’s not taking into account dozens or even hundreds of other animals like this one that may have been infected.” He gestures at the bagged raccoon.

“I know.” Shiro closes his eyes for a moment. It’s bad. It’s _really_ bad. He’s read histories of Covenant hunts on lycanthropy, and if he’s being honest with himself, he thinks it’s still one of the few cases where they had actually been in the right. Lycanthropy victims are mindless, deadly, and have the ability to cause an epidemic in less than a month. The blood-soaked memory of his own personal experience with them certainly agrees that nothing good comes of letting them live. 

If they don’t get this situation under control _soon..._ it won’t even matter if the Covenant shows up at Garrison. There won’t be much left to save at that point, anyway. 

“We’ll just need to do what we can,” he says, composing himself as much as possible. “Allura, see if you can get the word out to the community. They should be on the alert for a lycanthropy outbreak, especially for any mammals. If we can start getting a network focused on finding these things, we might have a shot. When Keith’s up this evening, I’ll see if he can get the Marmora Society to mobilize as well.” 

Doubtless they would—a lycanthropy outbreak would be an enormous threat to a vampire population. Infected animals or people could just as easily pollute their food supply and threaten them as well. The Marmora Society is largely reclusive, but their information network is enormous, and once they act on something, they are a force to behold. They would definitely be useful here.

“HAIL, the wisdom of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of the Darkness!” one of the mice cheers. Most of the mice take up the chorus, bobbing up and down on their hind legs and waving their tiny staves and scepters excitedly. “Hail! Hail!”

Shiro considers. “Maybe consult the mice, too,” he says after a moment. “If Alfor dealt with these before, maybe they have a few tricks up their sleeves. Metaphorically speaking.”

“It would be an Honor to recite the glorious tales of the God of Great Healing and Greater Science,” the red-streaked mice recites. “We will do His Bidding!” 

“Okay, so, keeping an eye out for evil crazy lions, got that part,” Hunk says nervously, “But, um, how do we know where werelions are when they’re not lions? Like, how do we know where they are, right now? Do we know?”

“No. We don’t,” Shiro says grimly. “We just have to be careful, and keep an eye out for unusual or suspicious activity. When transformed, they’ll be mindless...but prior to that, they could be scared, or skittish. Paranoia is common in both rabies and lycanthropy victims. They may also have bite wounds, or be concealing an injury.”

“That’s not a lot to go on,” Lance says, frowning.

“We know the Scent!” one of the mice repeats sternly. “We can smell the Sickness! No matter what form they wear, we will Know them for the Mindless Ones!”

Shiro frowns. “How close do you have to be to smell it?” he asks, addressing the excitable red-dyed mouse perched on the edge of the medical table. 

“Close enough to smell the breath of the infected,” the mouse recites primly. “Close enough to scent the wounds.”

“That’s too close to be safe,” Shiro says, frowning and shaking his head. “I won’t be able to protect you in the event of an attack.” The Aeslin mice would barely be a mouthful for a hungry, violent werelion. The congregation would be decimated in seconds.

“We are not afraid of a dangerous mission if the Lion Goddess Wills it!” the red-dyed mouse squeaks solemnly. 

“Perhaps there are other ways for their skills to be of use,” Allura says. “Doubtless there will be victims who are more willing to submit to the Aeslin testing, without immediate risk of danger. If the danger could be as wide-spread as you say, they would be invaluable in identifying infected populations who have not yet turned.”

“ _HAIL!”_ the mice praise, in a high pitched chorus. 

“Alright,” Shiro decides. “Keep that on the back burner, and find volunteers who might be willing to help with that. It will still be dangerous, but at least not _as_ dangerous as hunting transformed lycanthrope victims.” 

Allura nods in agreement, sweeping back her wings regally. “Of course.” 

“In the meantime…” Shiro thinks fast, and makes a few snap decisions. “Allura, Coran, I’ll give you the recipe for the anti-lycanthropy tincture. It was made with lycanthropy- _w_ in mind, but it should apply to lycanthropy- _l_ as well. Get whatever ingredients you can and start mixing up batches. Anyone we find who was recently bitten will need to consent to take it, but if the Aeslin identify them as infected, it could still save their lives.” 

Even if the Aeslin _didn’t_ identify them as infected, it might still be worth trying. Aeslin mice have eidetic memories and could pass down the memory of scent just as much as spoken word, but there wasn’t hard proof that they could really do what they said. 

Allura nods again. “We will begin immediately. Give Coran the list of ingredients and he can procure the items. I will prepare this room for creating the batches, and coordinate the search efforts in the interim.” 

“Good. I’m heading back to the campus—I’ll see if I can’t track down who’s causing this mess, or keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Hunk—I hate to ask it, but if you’re willing, I’d like you as backup. Gorgons are more reptile than mammal, and I’ve never heard of any gorgon sub-species with lycanthropy. You should be immune.”

“Immune to the disease,” Hunk says. “Not immune to them _mauling_ me. I’m pretty sure lions are still super dangerous!” 

“I’m not going to force you,” Shiro says. “I realize it’s dangerous, and I’m asking a lot of you. I know you’re not trained for this. But we need to move fast, before this spreads so quickly it’s past what we can handle.” 

Hunk takes a deep breath, clearly distraught, and worries his hands nervously. But after a moment, he says, “I don’t like the idea, but...I’ve got a lot of friends on that campus. Plus Shay. And these things are dangerous. I don’t want people to get hurt. So...I guess I’ll help.” He groans. “I just really hope we don’t end up dead in the process.”

“We’re not going to die. We’re going to be careful.” He turns. “Lance...I assume you’re going to refuse to stay benched, like I asked?”

“You assume right,” Lance says, eyes narrowed. “I’m not letting my friends go into danger alone.”

Shiro sighs. He knows Lance _will_ follow after them, one way or another. He’s both stubborn and loyal to his friends—admirable qualities, but occasionally troublesome. “Fine. But I’m going to ask that you do things _my_ way, okay? I’m serious when I say you’re more at risk than anyone else here.”

“I’ll be careful, and I’ll listen,” Lance promises. “But you’re not leaving me behind.”

“Good. Can you smell the lycanthropy, like the mice can?”

The ears of the mice prick up in interest, but Lance only shakes his head, looking apologetic. “Sorry. I can smell raccoon blood at a hundred paces, but the only thing that smelled off about _that_ one to me was the fact that it’d been rotting for a night. Whatever the mice are making out, a chupacabra nose isn’t made the same way.”

“Alright. Not a problem. It was still worth checking. In that case, we’re swinging by my place to get properly armed, and then we’re going back to the search.” 

“Properly armed?” Lance says, blinking. “We?”

“Yes, we,” Shiro says firmly. “That includes you. Your chupacabra form is dangerous, but you’re liable to infection when you fight naturally. You’re getting a gun. With silver bullets.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Lance’s eyes light up with delight. “Aw, _man._ Bring it _on,_ werelions!” 

And really, that about sums it up as well as anything else.

* * *

One trip to Shiro’s apartment later, and the three of them are armed to the teeth.

Well, two of them, really. Hunk had declined the weaponry. “I don’t know how to shoot a gun, so I’d probably just hit you guys,” he admits. “And if a werelion gets close enough to attack me, I can stun it, or my hair will petrify it. You said I can’t get lycanthropy, so I can bite’em, right?”

It’s a fair enough assessment. Although Hunk is generally nervous and non-confrontational by nature, that doesn’t make him harmless. If a werelion attacks him, it will probably regret it. 

Shiro and Lance have no such advantage, not when both of them are susceptible to infection if they’re bitten. To that end, Shiro arms them as efficiently as possible. 

The first step is dressing correctly. Shiro’s ‘working’ gear is usually sturdy, but he swaps his lighter long-sleeved shirt for a thicker sweater, and his fingerless gloves for full ones. The less skin exposed to be wounded and potentially infected by lycanthropy, the better. The heavier jacket and sweater also make it much easier to conceal additional weaponry—which he plans to carry in spades.

Two semi-automatic pistols loaded with silver bullets are hidden on his person, and more silver rounds are stored away in a box in one of his jacket pockets. A third is handed off to Lance, who conceals it carefully on a shoulder harness that will remain secure even if Lance shifts to his other form. Shiro exchanges several of his normal knives for silver ones as well, hiding them away in his sleeves, boot holsters, and inner coat pockets. 

After some contemplation, he stows a collapsible crossbow and several silver-tipped quarrels in a bag to hide in his car as well. The firearms would be most efficient, but an insane werelion could attack anywhere, even in broad daylight. Shooting loud guns in a public setting with a lot of civilians could do more harm than good, and would draw far too much attention. Crossbows were a beloved classic of the Covenant, and Shiro doesn’t like the heavy association between the weapons and the organization. But they were Covenant favorites for good reason—despite seeming archaic and out of date, they were convenient and easy to get rid of in a hurry, and just as efficient at killing things as a handgun with far less noise. 

His final selection for werelion hunting isn’t for the lycanthropes at all. He selects two pairs of polarized glasses, handing one set off to Lance. “Just in case,” he says.

Lance blinks. “In case of what? Needing a fashion change? Nearsightedness?” 

Shiro rolls his eyes. “The lenses are treated, but not prescription. If Hunk needs to take his own glasses off to try and stun something, this will keep us from being caught in the crossfire by accident.”

“Oh, good idea,” Hunk says, eyes bright. “When did you get those?”

“When a pliny’s gorgon started frequenting my home at all hours of the day and night,” Shiro says mildly. “Don’t take it personal, Hunk...it just pays to be prepared. I’d rather not get knocked out in my own home because of an accidental glance.”

“Naw, that’s fair,” Hunk agrees. 

“I guess,” Lance concedes. “But trade me—yours look cooler.”

Shiro shakes his head in exasperation, but dutifully trades over the glasses. “I don’t think the werelions will care much about fashion, Lance.”

“It’s never a bad time to look good,” Lance says, fitting the glasses on and checking himself out in the TV reflection. “And I definitely make this look good.”

“Wonderful. I’m sure the lycanthropes will be so stunned they’ll pause long enough to let you shoot them,” Shiro says. 

“That’s the plan,” Lance agrees, grinning smugly.

Shiro pauses long enough to peek in on Keith—still almost literally dead to the world, since it’s barely past noon—and scribble a quick note about the day’s events so far. _Attack caused by lycanthropy-_ l _. DO NOT GET BITTEN OR DRINK BLOOD FROM ANY SUSPECTED CARRIER. Contact Marmora Society ASAP to mobilize lycanthropy watch. Carry silver. Call when you can._ He leaves the note next to another pair of polarized glasses and some silver knives—silver doesn’t hurt vampires, contrary to popular lore, and he knows better than to think Keith will stay out of the fight just because _he’s_ susceptible too. He’d rather Keith be armed and prepared.

And then, as ready as they possibly can be, they head back for the Garrison U campus.

They spend the next two hours roaming the campus, hunting for any kind of hint of werelions. The class buildings are unusually clear, due to activities being cancelled for the day, but it gives Hunk the chance to play tour guide without interference and show them around the place. He texts Shay to join them, too, although she doesn’t respond. 

“That’s not that weird,” Hunk says, although he frowns a little as he says it. “She’s doing environmental studies, and sometimes she gets wrapped up in going out and trying to find ways to help heal the Earth, y’know?” 

Shiro gets it, but he still thinks it’s a little strange that she wouldn’t answer in the middle of a crisis on the campus. Especially after she’d volunteered to stay behind in case something happened. “Keep trying to reach her,” he says instead. “Call if you have to, too.”

“Right,” Hunk agrees. “Okay. I can keep doing that.”

While he does, they keep up the search. Hunk shows them the buildings devoted to the sciences, liberal arts, and businesses, and points out the dorms in the distance. He also shows them around the outdoor parts of the campus, a fairly open set of well-landscaped grounds with a naturalistic look, even smack in the middle of Garrison City. 

Shiro reflexively takes note of every exit, hidden alcove or nook, window, storage closet, and out of the way classroom. He’s not expecting to find secret hideouts or hidden passages in a public university, but any place that a transformed werelion could stay hidden away until it lost control and went on a rampage was still good to note.

They don’t find anything after the first hour. They don’t hear from Shay either, despite another text being sent. So Shiro decides to change tactics. 

“You mentioned people disappearing from classes recently, right?” Shiro asks Hunk.

“A couple weeks ago,” Hunk says, frowning. “I thought it was the flu. D’you think it was lycanthropy?”

“It’s possible,” Shiro says slowly. “The raccoon we found attempted to transform last night, based on the waitress’s story. That means it had to have been bitten at least twenty-eight days ago, and the incubation period finished up last night.”

“So werelions have been running around on the campus for at least a month already?” Lance summarizes. “Ugh. There could be so many by now!”

“True, but it gives us a place to start, at least,” Shiro says. “Hunk...did you know any of the people who stopped coming in to classes?”

“A couple,” Hunk says slowly. “Some of them were in my dorm building.”

“Alright,” Shiro decides, “Let’s see if we can talk to some of them. If they really do have the flu and it’s been this long, they should be going to a hospital anyway. If not...we might learn a thing or two.”

“Or get the flu,” Lance grumbles.

“Which is treatable,” Shiro says. “I’ll take it over lycanthropy any day of the week.” 

They give it a shot. Hunk lets them into his dorm building, and they try tracking down the few students Hunk happens to know who had disappeared because they were ‘out sick.’ 

But what they find is questionable. They’re able to talk to the roommates of two of the students who had vanished from classes, but it seemed they had disappeared in other regards as well. One roommate confirmed that a missing student had left the semester early to go home and spend time with her sick grandmother before she was expected to pass away. The second stated his roommate hadn’t been feeling well, but had left to go home for a family vacation. Neither roommate knew when the missing students were expected to be back; they’d been housed together at random, and didn’t know each other well. 

A third missing student doesn’t answer the door of his dorm at all. When Shiro lets himself in—lockpicking is a skill he’s had since he was seven—the room appears unlived in for at least two weeks by any of the three students in the triple.

Shiro doesn’t need his gut instinct to tell him something is definitely wrong there.

He doesn’t need to be proven right, either, but he is anyway at the end of the second hour. 

Hunk calls up Shay to check in yet again, more nervous-looking than ever. But his expression grows more hopeful when someone clearly picks up on the other end of the line. “Shay! Thank Athena. I was starting to get worried when you didn’t—”

His jaw snaps shut audibly, and his eyes go wide. He swallows, and his hand shakes as he quickly holds the phone out towards Lance and Shiro and swaps it to ‘speaker.’

“—ill with the Shirogane?” A low, gravelly voice growls. “Answer me. Now.” 

It’s not Shay’s voice. Based on the screen, it _is_ Shay’s phone. A cold shiver runs down Shiro’s spine. 

“I won’t wait much longer,” the voice growls again. “Is the Shirogane there or not? I will kill the girl if I have to wait another minute for an answer.” Hunk fixes Shiro with a pleading look.

“I’m here,” Shiro answers, voice curt and cold. “I don’t think it needs to be said, but just to be clear: if you do hurt that girl, I _will_ end you.” 

“I am hardly surprised to hear the Covenant hunter threatening me with death,” the low, gravelly voice answers. Although they speak in near growls, they sound calm and in control. That’s not necessarily a good sign. It means they most likely won’t kill Shay out of a fit of rage...but it also means that whoever is speaking feels they have control of the situation. 

“I’m not Covenant,” Shiro says, firmly. “I don’t kill needlessly. But you’ve kidnapped an innocent girl. Protecting her won’t be _needless._ ” 

“Not so innocent, if she helps the Covenant hunt us,” the voice says coldly. 

That makes Shiro’s stomach turn, but he keeps himself outwardly steady. Shay’s kidnapping is no mere coincidence, then; they’d seen her with Shiro, Hunk and Lance earlier. That meant they’d been observed, as early as last night when they’d found the kill, or that morning when they’d shown up to investigate further. And whoever it was hadn’t hesitated to try and clean up the loose ends. 

“What do you want?” Shiro says, voice sharp. 

“I want you to come have a chat,” the voice says. “Let’s discuss that _innocent blood,_ and the Covenant and Shiroganes running around in our backyard. You are meddling in things you should not.” 

Shiro has a feeling that _chat_ is supposed to be one he never finishes. Still, he doesn’t have much choice. “Alright. Let’s talk. Where?”

“The sewer grate near the diner. You know the one. Bring your friends.” 

So Hunk and Lance weren’t supposed to walk away from this little chat, either. “Of course. When?”

“Immediately,” the voice orders. “Take too long, and I will kill the girl.” 

“If you do, there’s no place on Earth you can go where I won’t find you,” Shiro says, with maddening calm, compared to the way his heart pounds inside his chest. “I’m not Covenant, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn their tricks.”

“Then don’t dally,” the voice growls, and hangs up.

Shiro stares at the phone in Hunk’s hands for a moment, and then turns to head in the direction of the diner.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Lance says, making a ‘T’ shape with his hands. “Time out for a minute! This smells like a trap all over. A really stinky one. And you’re just gonna walk into it?”

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Shiro says. “If we wait too long, he’ll kill Shay.”

“I definitely don’t want Shay to die, but don’t we like...need a plan, or something?” Hunk asks urgently, as he hurries up next to Shiro.

“We have one,” Shiro says. “We’re springing their trap. We have a few key details on our side.”

“Please, enlighten us,” Hunk says, anxious.

Shiro ticks them off on his fingers as he moves quickly. “One, we know what we’re dealing with. They don’t know for certain that we’ve figured it out yet. It means we’re armed for fighting exactly their kind of danger, while they’re liable to think they’re all but invincible. Lycanthropes can take absurd amounts of damage, but not against silver.” He ticks the second finger. “Two—they’re focusing on me.” 

“And that’s good _why?”_ Lance asks. “Last I checked, you can also get were’d.”

“It’s _good_ because they don’t seem to recognize that either of you are cryptids,” Shiro says. “And with the way they keep referring to me as Covenant, they probably assume you’re other Covenant agents...probably junior cadets.”

Hunk shudders. “Ugh. No, no thank you. Nope.”

“It works for us,” Shiro says. “It means we’ve got a few abilities in our back pocket. Three—I don’t think they know Shay isn’t human either. They just refer to her as ‘the girl.’ That doesn’t mean she’s unkillable, so we still have to hurry—but she won’t be as easy for them to kill as they probably think.” 

“So we just walk into a trap. With werelions. Probably _a lot_ of werelions, if they’ve been around for a month,” Lance summarizes. “In the sewer. The place where you said we definitely shouldn’t go, until we know what we’re dealing with.”

“We know what we’re dealing with,” Shiro says. “That was point number one.”

Lance swears under his breath before muttering, “We’re gonna die.”

“You can stay behind if you want, Lance,” Shiro says. “I meant what I said before. I would prefer you benched.” 

“Hell, no,” Lance says. “If you’re gonna go charge into the middle of the werelion base or whatever it is, you’re at _least_ gonna go with backup.” He sighs. “So what’s the plan? Get in, grab Shay, get out, dust ourselves off?”

“Something like that,” Shiro says. 

“I notice there’s not much plan for ‘get out,’” Hunk observes.

“Leave with Shay,” Shiro says.

“I think we’re improvising our way out,” Lance stage whispers to his friend. 

“I’m so bad at improvising,” Hunk says with a moan. 

They reach the manhole cover in record time. Hunk keeps an eye out for pedestrian watchers, while Shiro and Lance lever the cover off. “Someone is probably watching from up top,” Shiro murmurs, low under his breath. “But they won’t strike right away down below. As soon as you’re under, change and go up.” 

Lance blinks at him for a moment, but then breaks into a grin of understanding. “Oh. I’m your eyes in the sky, yeah?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Shiro says. “Don’t get spotted. If we’re in a tight spot...spike drop.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The cover slips off. Shiro insists on going first, dropping neatly down with a splash into water runoff and stray garbage with a grimace. Nothing immediately leaps out of the darkness of the tunnel beyond to try and kill him, so he calls above. “Clear—for now.”

Lance climbs in next. He only clambers partway down the ladder in his human form before taking a leap into the darkness. Shiro never hears a splash of landing; instead there’s a soft scrape of long claws on concrete, and a mass of spines slithers overhead into the darkness. As long as he stays in the shadows and uses the old piping and ceilings of the sewers and subway systems to stay unnoticed, his ability to Spider-man his way upside-down through the whole complex will give them at least a little cover. 

Hunk comes last, reaching up to neatly shove the manhole cover mostly back into place—enough so the police won’t come down after them, anyway. The very last thing Shiro needs are humans coming down into a cryptid-dominated labyrinth infested with lycanthropy- _l._

“Careful, Hunk,” Shiro warns softly, under his breath. “Take it slow, and keep all your senses at the ready. Let me know if you see anything coming at us.” 

“Right,” Hunk says. His voice shakes a little, but even so, he seems determined to do what he can to rescue his friend. 

Shiro leads the way down the tunnel. Even during the day, the lighting in the Garrison underground is not ideal. There are little electric fixtures here and there for the city maintenance workers, but the lights aren’t maintained often, and cryptids frequently disable them at intervals for their own ease of mind anyway. So Shiro can see, but not well, and finds himself relying on his other senses more than his vision.

Lance will be in more or less the same boat, as well. Chupacabra are diurnal species, and not known for their night vision. Gorgons see quite well in the dark, but Hunk lacks the training to really take advantage of it in this situation. Shiro finds himself wishing he had Keith for backup—a natural night hunter, with training for this sort of work, Keith would have been perfect for this mission. A pity he’s not due to wake up for another few hours, at which point they’ll have already pulled off the rescue successfully, or they’ll be dead. 

Even _without_ the looming threat of a pack—pride?—of werelions ahead, Garrison underground is a dangerous place to be. Although human maintenance workers do occasionally come down here for upkeep, everything below the pavement of the city traditionally belongs to the cryptid community. Bugbears, hidebehinds, bogeymen, ghouls, vampires, lamias, and other species that either hate the daylight or can’t easily hide in human communities, have long since seized control of the network of sewer systems and old subway tracks and stations. Places not under immediate observation or regular use by humans have been carefully carved out, expanded upon, and hidden behind illusions and spells that cause any wandering humans to turn away and forget why they’d come. 

Garrison underground is practically it’s own city district by now, complete with its own hidden cryptid hospital for those who can’t risk checking into a human one. Areas that have been carved out for habitation are well maintained, clean, and have modern amenities like electricity, running water, internet and cable, siphoned from their sources with a few payoffs and a little help from House Altea. It’s got its own thriving community of cryptids. 

But that doesn’t make it human-friendly. And wandering into the underground is a bit like wandering into a wolf pack’s territory: they might leave you alone, but they might just as well decide to run you out, or worse. 

Shiro is on cordial terms with the underground cryptids, which more or less means they agree to ignore each other, provided one side doesn’t attempt to murder the other. Shiro doesn’t head down into the sewers unless he’s hunting something that deserves it. Even then, he usually does his best to make it clear exactly who or what he came for, and why, and he never overstays his welcome. 

Coming down here now, uninvited and with little to no warning, is not the smartest decision he’s made. He could make the denizens of the underground very angry, and a horde of angry bugbears and bogeymen isn’t something he wants on his plate. 

But the threat of lycanthropy is far worse—and the threat of lycanthropy _infecting_ many of those mammalian underground citizens is blatantly terrifying. If there are werelions down here, he needs to take them down as soon as possible. And he needs to make sure Shay, and Hunk and Lance, get out of here in one piece.

So he picks his way forward, slow but careful, firearm loaded with silver bullets in hand, but not raised. He won’t risk accidentally shooting an innocent cryptid and starting an underground war. He won’t risk leaving himself unarmed and easy to strike, either.

They follow the main tunnel for a while. It’s lit with the occasional maintenance light, and is clearly still moderately well traveled by humans. They’re cautious, but Shiro doubts the lycanthropes will be hiding out in the main service tunnels, not if their goal is to make sure Shiro’s body is never found again. It’s too obvious. For a while, he doesn’t see any kind of indication that there’s anyone down here but the three of them.

Even so, Shiro can’t shake the unmistakable feeling he’s being watched.

The feeling gets stronger and stronger until, ten minutes later, he’s almost relieved when he sees a flicker of movement amongst the shadows ahead. It’s low to the ground, so it’s not Lance, but it’s far too big to be a stray rodent. 

Bingo.

The shadow seems to disappear into the wall, and for a moment Shiro can’t tell where it would have gotten to. But when he runs his hands over the damp concrete, his fingers slip through the stone unexpectedly. The moment he withdraws his hand he finds himself nearly forgetting what he’d just seen.

He smiles grimly to himself. “Hidebehind illusion,” he mutters to Hunk. “Pretty good one. It’s spelled to make the maintenance workers ignore it.” It was probably a route into the Garrison underground proper, although Shiro doesn’t know this one yet. He makes a mental note to do his best to remember it for later. He’s had some training resisting these kinds of spells, but it does take some degree of willful intent to do so.

They step through the illusion and into a whole new section of the underground, one that doesn’t belong to humans anymore. The tunnels change here, becoming less modernized but no less architecturally sound. Not too far in they come to what looks like an old, abandoned subway station that had long since been forgotten, its tracks covered over and its tunnels converted to a miniature cryptid highway underground. It looks well trafficked, as much as Shiro can see in the dim light. The feeling of being watched by many eyes is far worse here.

The reason why is clear not ten seconds later. As they step into the dimly lit abandoned station, Shiro spots a figure hanging over the cemented-over tracks from a set of chains around their wrists. Ten steps closer, and it’s obvious it’s Shay, gagged and struggling to free herself from the chains or the old set of pipes they’re hooked around. 

“Shay!” Hunk hollers, taking several hurried steps forward. “Shay, hang on, we’ll get you down!”

Shay’s eyes widen as she spots Shiro and Hunk, and she shakes her head frantically, making muffled noises behind the gag. She tries to kick with her feet and jerk her head to a point near one of the subway platforms, but spins awkwardly in place from the chains a moment later.

“Hunk—” Shiro snaps warningly.

“I am impressed,” says a voice to the right. “They really did come quickly.”

“I saw the opportunity for the trap, and I took it,” the low, growling voice from the phone call says. “It is not so hard to catch the Covenant as everyone seems to think.”

Shiro’s head jerks right, as does the gun in his hands. 

They aren’t alone in the underground. There are three men there, all muscular and clearly used to combat. One is very tall, with a lean, athletic build, and long hair bound in two tails down his back. The second is more thickly built, with a square face and sturdy limbs, wearing his hair tied back into a single ponytail. The last of them is the shortest and most stout—and also familiar, because he’s the same angry buyer with the civil war muttonchops Shiro had seen that morning at the murder site. 

Muttonchops is the one to take a step forward. “Shirogane,” he says, and his voice is lower and more gravelly now, recognizable as the voice on the phone. “I am glad to see you know how to obey commands.”

Shiro narrows his eyes at the man. “I showed up, as agreed upon,” he says, and gestures to Shay. “Let her go.”

The tallest, lean man laughs. The noise is unpleasant. 

Muttonchops gives him a stern look. “Silence, Throk,” he snaps, before turning back to Shiro. “None of you will be leaving. You are meddling in Galra affairs. I won’t have a _Shirogane_ interfere with my mistress’ work.” 

Shiro’s eyes widen. _Galra_ again! He’s tried to dredge up any information he can on the mysterious word ever since the altercation with Macidus, with no luck whatsoever. And now it’s fallen into his lap once more. 

“Galra is wrapped up in this lycanthropy business?” he asks, voice cold. “What is _Galra?_ And why are you so dead set on killing people in this city?”

The tall one, Throk, scowls at him. “We owe no explanation to unascended humans,” he sneers. “Much less the dogs of the _Covenant._ ” Pony-tail on the right gives a grunt, and a nod of agreement. 

Shiro opens his mouth to snap something back, to try and get _any_ explanation out of them. This ‘Galra’ is dangerous, and he still knows nothing. But he barely opens his mouth before Hunk whimpers softly, “Um...Shiro…”

Shiro glances at Hunk, who points at the tunnels and broken doorways around the perimeter of the old subway station. Gleaming within all of them are large eyes—the eyes of a cat reflecting even the dimmest of lights to glow eerily in near darkness. 

As he watches, several lions pad slowly out of the gloom into visible sight. The animals don’t look good—they’re all scraggly and scrawny, underfed with dirty fur, and the males have underdeveloped manes. But even a weak lion can kill an unprepared, average human, and there’s got to be at least fifteen of them here. 

Several of the animals snarl, and drool dribbles in ropes from their fangs. They pace closer—close enough to surround—but they don’t strike yet. 

Shiro frowns. Lycanthropy—and these were _definitely_ werelions, no doubt about it—wasn’t known for encouraging patience in its victims. A lycanthrope would be wild with bloodlust, waiting to kill any prey that had wandered too close. They had an instinctive need to spread the virus, especially when freshly transformed. What were they hesitating for?

Muttonchops regards Shiro coldly. “We _owe_ no explanation,” he agrees with his companion. “But I _will_ give you a declaration. The Galra are an empire—and I am building it an army.” He sweeps a hand grandly about at the werelions inching closer. “You will have the honor of dying by its claws.” 

_Building an army._ Shiro thinks of all the unexpectedly disappeared students in the Garrison U campus up above, and at the underfed werelions all around them, and suddenly has an awful feeling he knows where they’ve disappeared to.

“Them, Prorok?” Throk questions, with obvious disgust. “They are barely infantry. _I_ have worked faithfully for the Galra for many years. Grant _me_ the honor to kill the Covenant beasts. I have earned it.”

“Very well,” Muttonchops—Prorok, apparently—agrees. “Kill them quickly then, Throk. We are behind schedule already due to their intrusion.”

“Gladly,” Throk says, eyes wild, as he sneers across the subway station at Shiro. “I’ve fought far more fearsome enemies than _you_ for the Galra, and left them all for dead. A juvenile Covenant brat will be nothing.”

“Ex-Covenant,” Shiro corrects automatically. He’s afraid of the lycanthropes, but not of _this_ person, and the calm control in his voice is unmistakable.

Throk’s sneer changes to a scowl. Clearly, his threat was supposed to intimidate far more. With a howl, he leaps forward to strike—

—and with a sickening _crack_ of snapping bones and a ripple of fur, Throk is gone, and an enormous lion charges for Shiro instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you guessed werewolves, which is pretty close! So good job :)


	13. Gorgos stheno: Part Four

“We’ve all got our skills. There’s no shame in depending on them. Just in falling apart if things don’t go exactly the way you were planning.”   
—Mike Gucciard,  _ Midnight Blue-Light Special  _

**_In the sewers under Garrison, which isn’t always a bad place, but this part is_ **

For one startled moment, Shiro doesn’t know how to react. Throk had  _ changed.  _ Throk is a werelion too. 

But he’d still been  _ sentient.  _ He’d been unpleasant, but he’d spoken perfectly rationally as a human, and been capable of having a conversation. He’d  _ controlled  _ his transformation, chosen when to use it.

Shiro’s never heard of that before. He didn’t know it was possible. Everything he’s studied, even the papers and materials written by other cryptids, has _always_ suggested lycanthropes were the very definition of monsters once infected. They couldn’t think or reason. They just attacked, until their bodies gave out.

Not Throk, though. And that means  _ everything  _ he knows about lycanthropy could be wrong.

He freezes. For just one moment, he freezes, as the werelion charges at him, eyes hungry. He freezes because he could be  _ wrong,  _ and maybe this person doesn’t deserve execution, and if he kills him then maybe even after all this time he’s still too Covenant to ever really change _.  _

And he freezes because he remembers this, too—more than five years ago, when a whole Covenant party had been sent to deal with a werewolf outbreak, with the wolf bearing down on him, jaws slavering, eyes wild, yowling and hungry, and he can feel its hot breath and see the gleam of its fangs too close too close too close and—

—and then it passes, and instinct takes over. With almost maddening, calm precision that doesn’t at all reflect how afraid he is inside, Shiro raises his gun and puts four silver bullets into Throk’s head, right between the eyes, one after another.

Throk makes an odd sound, somewhere between a yowl of pain and a strange, bubbling little confused whimper. His forward momentum doesn’t stop, but his front paws collapse beneath him, and he pitches forward in an ungainly flop. His body slides a good six feet, rolls awkwardly, and finally shudders to a halt ten feet from Shiro and Hunk.

Shiro shakes inside, confused and uneasy, even if he maintains outward control over his body. He hadn’t wanted to do that, not if Throk  _ had  _ been truly in control of himself. But the man had also been determined to kill him. At some point, no matter how hard he wants to try to keep everyone alive, self-preservation  _ has  _ to become the priority.

It doesn’t mean he won’t ever forget this, though.

And it doesn’t stop him from raising the gun to aim at Prorok next. And however shaky he might feel inside, his hands are unerringly steady as he aims. His finger is off the trigger, but it will take him less than a second to change that, if he’s pushed.

“Let Shay go,” he repeats, very slowly and deliberately. “And then we can talk, like you wanted.”

The tension in the room grows so thick that it’s a heavy weight Shiro can all but feel on his shoulders. Hunk whimpers next to him again, clearly not happy with the turn of events. The transformed werelions around them shift uneasily, and a few back up several paces. 

Prorok’s still-unnamed companion, the one with the ponytail, sputters angrily. “That’s not possible!” he snaps. “We’re immune! We’re unkillable! She  _ promised!  _ He can’t kill us with a  _ gun!”  _

“I can when the gun is filled with silver bullets,” Shiro says, still keeping the weapon trained on Prorok. “I will say it one last time. Let the girl go. If you don’t, you’re kidnapping, and I can’t permit that.”

Prorok’s eyes narrow. When he speaks, his voice is raised, addressing the werelions. “You’ve seen where this Covenant bastard stands,” he snaps. “If you need any further proof that he’s here to murder you all, there it is. Attack him.  _ Now!”  _

The werelions surrounding Shiro and Hunk still hesitate. Several mince forward a few uneasy steps, but they’re clearly nervous. Considering Shiro had just put down one of their own, that’s not surprising. They know what he can do to them, if they’re the first to get too close. 

_ “Now!”  _ Prorok snarls. “Death is  _ preferable  _ to what he will do to you if he captures you.  _ Attack!”  _ Even as he roars the order, he begins to really  _ roar,  _ as his own body begins to snap and crack and sprout tawny lion fur. His companion also begins to shift, sprouting a long mane and long claws. 

Shiro curses, and fires in their direction, hoping to catch them mid-transformation. Prorok is clearly the instigator; if he can put him down now, with the way the rest are hesitating, he might stand a chance. 

But Prorok is equal to that, and is already moving by the time Shiro starts shooting. His few first steps are awkward stumbles as he shifts from upright to quadrupedal, but then he has his footing and darts away at rapid speed, while his unnamed companion circles in the opposite direction. Shiro tries to shoot him again, but Prorok is as fast as an actual lion, and Shiro no longer has the advantage of surprise. His next two shots miss before he has to stop firing altogether—Prorok is smart enough to run in the direction of Shay, and Shiro can’t risk using the firearm without potentially hitting her instead.

Shooting also has an unfortunate side effect: it startles several of the other werelions into trying to strike. When he misses immediately killing their leader, and reveals he’s  _ not  _ as invincible or as perfect a killer as initially implied, it only seems to embolden them. Several of the lions, a scrawny male and two lionesses, come at both Shiro and Hunk with nervously switching tails.

“Okay, no, nope, definitely not,” Hunk says, in a panicked, sarcasm-filled rambling way Shiro’s never quite heard out of him before. “I don’t care if I’m immune, you do  _ not  _ get to eat me. Shiro,  _ glasses.”  _

They’re already on, but Shiro takes half a second to make sure the bridge of the glasses are pressed firmly against his nose for maximum coverage. At the same time Hunk whips his off, and yanks his headband down around his neck like a bandana. With the spells on the headband shifted, his snakes emerge out of seemingly thin air, and without the calming spells, they’re already coiled to strike and hissing madly. 

The closest of the three werelions, the large male, meets Hunk’s collective gaze. It stumbles for a moment as though drunk, before flopping forward on its face, completely out cold. The two lionesses follow suit as Hunk’s gaze and those of his snakes sweep across them—it only takes a few bare seconds of locked eyes to be stunned by a pliny’s gorgon. Within seconds, all three are collapsed several feet away, unconscious, in ungainly leonine sprawls.

The remaining surrounding lycanthropes, with growls and yowls of distress, back up several paces again.

“Good job, Hunk,” Shiro approves. “Keep them warded off as best you can.” He hesitates. “But try not to kill any of them.” 

If his gut instinct is right, and the missing students are in fact these werelions...well, they’d also displayed a stunning amount of sentience. They don’t attack ravenously, and they’re capable of taking orders. They show obvious fear and hesitation at approaching. They’re smart enough to know what he and Hunk could do to them. 

If he can get rid of the general...maybe they still have a chance. But only if they’re not dead.

“I’ll try,” Hunk says. “I really don’t like killing things. But if they get close enough for my hair to bite…”

“Understood,” Shiro says grimly. Pliny’s gorgons had the most intelligent hair of the three distinct gorgon families, and they could to an extent be trained. In calm situations, gorgons could easily interact with other people without potentially killing others by accident. But in a fight or flight response they would probably strike, and they were extremely venomous. Hunk wouldn’t be able to stop them if he’d wanted to. 

This needs to be ended quickly. Shiro scans the crowd of animals and the dark shadows in the subway station beyond. Prorok and his unnamed accomplice were still out there, lost in the confusion, but no doubt circling. The leader had been adamant about killing Shiro and the others; Shiro doubts he’s fled. The question is, can Shiro take him down before too many fatalities on either side? 

He thinks he catches a glimpse of Prorok, circling around behind the crowd of other werelions. Unlike the surrounding weres, which are scrawny and unhealthy looking, Prorok and his companions had been large, healthy lions when transformed. It’s easy to differentiate him from the rest. 

But Shiro doesn’t have a clean shot at him, not without killing the others. And before he can do anything to change that, Hunk yelps, “Shiro, look out!” 

Shiro whips around, just in time to see Prorok’s unnamed companion leaping for him.

He curses, raising the gun, but he already knows it won’t do any good. Even if he gets a killing shot, the Galra servant’s momentum will carry him straight into Shiro; he’ll have enough time to do a lot of damage before he dies. Shiro will still try, but that enormous lion maw and equally enormous paws are already coming for him, and it’s so familiar  _ too  _ familiar  _ no no no not like this _ —

—and with a terrifying, unearthly howling, a spiked dog-lizard form comes slamming down on the lion’s back from the ceiling. 

The effects are almost comical. A lion, even a werelion, is a lot larger than a chupacabra—but in midair, with propelled downward momentum, even a wolf-sized chupacabra can pack enough force to send a lion smashing hard into the ground. The werelion’s paws splay out beneath it like something out of a cartoon, and its lower jaw cracks against the ground with an audible crunch. Lance, on the other hand, sticks the landing—possibly literally—crouched like an unholy demon dog on the werelion’s back. 

“Nice timing, Lance!” Shiro praises, breathing a sigh of relief that he doesn’t bother to hide. He drops the firearm to point at the ground again, not willing to risk hitting Lance.

Lance can’t speak in his true form, but offers a toothy, dog-like grin. 

The werelion beneath him bobs its head this way and that, trying to regain its senses and weakly lever itself to its feet. Lance kicks off of the animal, shoving with his powerful back legs to send the werelion stumbling back and rolling again, and using the momentum to leap lightly to Shiro’s and Hunk’s side. His claws gouge bloody rivets in the werelion’s sides, and Shiro winces at that. But as long as Lance doesn’t have any open wounds on his hands or feet, he’s not in danger of infection.

The unexpected arrival of another opponent causes the remaining werelions to back off again, unsure. Lance takes the opportunity to shift back to his humanoid form, and says without preamble, “I freed Shay while nobody was looking. The chains were on the ceiling, so…”

“Shay’s okay?” Hunk asks, relieved.

“More than that. She’s—yup, there she goes,” Lance says, as he shoves his borrowed, polarized glasses more firmly up his nose and glances in the direction Shay had been held in.

Shiro turns his head to look in the same direction, just in time to see Shay bringing her own bonds crashing down on the nearest werelion, a scruffy brute with a large mane. “I am sorry!” she calls loudly, and she really does look deeply apologetic, as the lion collapses in a dazed heap. 

Right. Oreads were  _ very  _ strong. 

Shay makes her way to the rest of them easily enough after that. One female werelion takes a hesitant snap at her calf, and gets a crack of chains upside her head for the trouble. After that the creatures back off, permitting Shay safe passage to their growing defensive circle. 

When she’s close enough, Shiro realizes she’s still technically shackled around both wrists—Lance had probably just unhooked her from the ceiling. Her own bonds are now a makeshift weapon. 

“I can get those off of you once this is over,” Shiro tells her, as she settles in next to Hunk. 

“That would be much appreciated,” Shay says, with a relieved look on her face. Although the shackles are still around her wrists, the long loops of chain are held firmly in her hands like a weapon.

“Oh—so we  _ are  _ gonna live through this?” Lance asks. “That’s really great, ‘cause I was starting to worry.” He unholsters the firearm Shiro had given him, keeping it trained on the staggering werelion he’d ambushed. “Now what?”

“Avoid killing,” Shiro says. “I think...I think these might be the missing students.”

“They are,” Shay confirms sadly. “I recognized a few of them from my classes. They had not all transformed when I was taken. They are afraid. I do not think they understand what is happening.”

“That’s what  _ I  _ was afraid of,” Shiro says grimly. “They’re still able to take orders, and they don’t seem like they want to do this. They’re being pushed. We might still be able to help them. Try to wound only.” 

“Easier said than done,” Lance mutters, still carefully watching the Galra servant he’d ambushed. 

“If it’s down to self defense, take the shot,” Shiro agrees. The students—they might have a chance. He has a feeling Prorok and his remaining companion are too deeply involved in whatever this  _ Galra  _ thing is to be willing to accept surrender as an option. 

“Roger that,” Lance acknowledges. 

To Shiro’s other side, Hunk nods, and his snakes still hiss wildly. “Got it.” 

The werelions are still circling nervously, but they’re starting to edge closer again. Shiro turns to face them, gun pointed at the floor, but ready to raise it should he have to. “Listen, all of you,” he calls, “This doesn’t have to end badly. I want to help you, if you’ll let me.”

“He lies,” Prorok snarls, from somewhere in the shadows of the abandoned subway station. “Look at what he’s done to Throk. Look at the way he and his soldiers have already killed a third of you. He is Covenant.”

The werelions make low growling noises and shift nervously. That makes Shiro uneasy in turn, but he keeps that hidden behind a facade of calm. “Only Throk is dead,” Shiro says, loud but not angry, “And only because he would have killed me otherwise. The others are all alive—just stunned. I don’t want this to end in death. Surrender peacefully, and we’ll use our connections in the cryptid community to help you adjust safely and honorably.” 

“He’s Covenant,” he repeats. “He  _ lies.”  _

“If I was Covenant, I wouldn’t be surrounded by non-human companions,” Shiro says. “My job is to protect this city. If you’re going to hurt others, I  _ will  _ have to stop you. But I’d much rather help you. Stand down and we’ll figure this all out. I promise.”

It’s hard to tell, with werelions, but Shiro can almost imagine his words are getting through to them. They stop edging forward to attack, and they don’t seem quite so...twitchy. Like they’re chewing on the things he said. 

“Enough,” Prorok snaps.  _ “Attack.”  _

At his words, one of the werelions—a lean male, with a scraggly brown mane and skin stretched tight enough to just begin to see his ribs—steps forward. Shiro tenses, but the werelion doesn’t attack. Instead, with another horrible  _ crack-snap  _ of readjusting bones, the werelion rears up and disappears, and a human stands in his place. 

He’s young—probably around Keith’s or Lance’s age—with pale skin, messy brown hair and bangs that fall in front of one of his eyes. He might have been athletic, before lycanthropy- _ l.  _ But now his face is wan and thin, and he’s clearly lost some muscle. His eyes are still defiant, though, and he eyes Shiro suspiciously. 

“You really believe that?” the kid asks after a moment. “You really  _ mean  _ that?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Prorok snaps.

But Shiro looks the kid in the eye and says firmly, “Yes.” It might be hard for the young man to understand—like rabies, lycanthropy inspires paranoia in its victims—but he does everything he can to convey that he  _ doesn’t  _ want to be this kid’s enemy. 

The kid stares him down for a long moment, and then takes a step back. “Stand down,” he says, glancing around at the other werelions ranged around him. “This fight isn’t worth it.” 

Shiro’s not sure what to expect from that, but to his surprise, the other werelions seem to actually listen. Another dark-furred male lion immediately backs away several steps, two lionesses follow suit. The other werelions, the ones still standing, twitch their tails and glance around uneasily, but slowly hunker down on their bellies or back away.

_ “No!”  _ Prorok snarls. “The Galra gave you the right to ascend and taught you how to use this power, and this is how you repay the empire?” 

Shiro knows what’s going to happen next almost before it does. It’s just as well, since things move in shocking, rapid succession. 

There’s a horrible snarling noise from behind him. At the same time that Prorok leaps, body warping into something leoline again. Hunk yelps in fear. Shiro raises his weapon from the floor to aim in the direction of the pride of werelions. Three gunshots sound from behind him. Shay gasps. The unknown young werelion’s eyes widen as he stares at the barrel of Shiro’s gun aimed in his direction. There’s a furious, betrayed look in his eyes as he raises his hands defensively and flinches. The other werelions, especially the first three to respond, leap forward with snarls and exposed claws.

Shiro fires four times, and puts four silver bullets in Prorok’s skull as the werelion leaps for the kid’s unprotected back.

Prorok’s momentum still carries him into the kid, who takes a glancing blow to the shoulder and is knocked over. The kid scrambles to his feet immediately, already shifting defensively back into his werelion form with sickening cracks of bone. 

Prorok does not. He hits the ground, rolls awkwardly in his lion form, and half-shifts back to his stout human form. His head is a bloody mess, but he manages to glare balefully at Shiro as the light leaves his eyes. 

“Served...faith...fully…” he rasps, in a wet, bubbling, growling voice, through a jaw only half properly formed for spoken language. 

He’s still staring when he dies.

Shiro ignores him, turning around to find the source of the other gunshots. “Everyone okay?”

“We’re good,” Lance answers, a little shakily. His own gun is still aimed in textbook perfect precision, although his finger is now off the trigger. The unnamed companion of Prorok’s is dead, skull riddled with holes made from silver bullets. “N...never had to do that before, it’s...um. Yeah. We’re good.”

Shiro puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You did a good job,” he says soothingly. “He would have killed us if you hadn’t acted. You protected everyone.” 

“Right,” Lance says, swallowing. “Yeah. Right.” 

“We can talk later, if you want,” Shiro says. Lance isn’t a stranger to killing things—hunting for blood-filled animals in order to stay alive frequently requires it. Killing something sentient willingly is a far cry from killing an animal for food, though, and this would be Lance’s first. Shiro wouldn’t blame him in the least if it took some time for him to come to terms with it. It’s hard.

He knows full well, from years of experience. And he knows it never gets easier.

“Yeah,” Lance says, nodding shakily. He finally seems to realize the gun is still aimed, and hastily lowers it to point at the floor, clicking the safety on. “Yeah, let’s do that. Thanks.” 

“Sure thing, buddy.” He turns to Shay and Hunk. “You two okay, too?” 

“That was not fun,” Hunk says. “But we’re alive.” His snakes are hissing wildly, clearly worked up and distressed, and the gorgon keeps a careful distance from everyone else for their own safety. But he must feel a little better at least, because he slips his polarized glasses back on a moment later, hiding his stunning gaze away.

“I am okay,” Shay says. Her voice is shaky, but she does finally drop her improvised weapons, letting the chains hang from her wrists. 

Shiro nods in relief. Good. At least his team had come out of this unscathed. 

Turning to the young werelion, he takes a careful step forward, deliberately holstering his firearm. It’s potentially a very stupid decision, and his instincts and experience both  _ scream  _ not to. He still doesn’t have the measure of this kid yet, or any of the other werelions around him. A paranoid, cornered lycanthrope could strike without warning, even if Shiro’s starting to realize it might be through no fault of their own. 

But he needs them to know he can be trusted to not shoot them, and that starts by giving them the benefit of the doubt, as alarming as it might be. “Everyone else okay?” 

The young werelion regards him quizzically, then shifts back to his human form again. He looks exhausted in pain with the rapid shifting back and forth, and Shiro can hardly blame him. Humans weren’t meant for this. But he still manages to pull his shoulders back proudly, and give Shiro a look of disbelief. “You saved me.” 

“Like I said, I’d much rather help you all,” Shiro says. “Were you badly hurt?” 

“Just a scratch. It’ll be okay. We heal pretty fast.” The kid watches him carefully for a moment, before saying incredulously, “You really do believe that, don’t you? About helping us?”

“I do,” Shiro says. “For all of you.” 

He glances around at the gathered werelions. Several of them are shifting back behind him to their human forms now that the fight is over...the ones that are conscious, anyway. Most of them still cower away from Shiro, eyeing him with suspicious or fearful expressions. 

Three of them have more guts than that—based on their positions, the same three that had originally responded to this kid’s order. A tall young man with dark skin, a short blonde girl with observant blue eyes, and a young woman with tanned skin and a fiercely determined expression all sidle up behind the first werelion, providing backup almost unconsciously. 

But all of them, regardless of courage or fear, seem to wait with bated breath for the conversation to continue between the werelion speaker and the Covenant agent that they’ve been told will kill them.

“Well?” The young man asks finally, after a long moment of tense silence. “What now?”

What now indeed. Shiro doesn’t have a playbook for this; he’s only just learning new things about lycanthropy even as they speak. But these kids need help, and helping people is what he does. He’ll just have to wing it.

“I’m Takashi Shirogane,” he introduces himself finally. “You can call me Takashi, or Shiro. What’s your name?” 

“Griffin,” the kid says after a moment. “James Griffin.”

“Alright, Griffin,” Shiro says. “Let’s talk.” 

Griffin is more than willing to. He’s able to confirm in a matter of minutes that the bulk of the lycanthrope army Prorok had been building is largely composed of college students like himself. There are others, but as far as he knows, it’s just a smattering of homeless people and other ‘loner’ sorts. 

“At least, for the ones I’ve met,” Griffin admits. “Was it different for you guys?”

He glances over his shoulder, where his three primary companions—introduced as Nadia Rizavi, Ryan Kinkade, and Ina Leifsdottir—are ranged nearby. All of the other werelions have shifted back to their human forms now, but most of them keep their distance, cautious and skittish. A few tend to their unconscious companions, now beginning to come around after being stunned by a gorgon or oread. These three seem more than willing to get close to Shiro and the others alongside Griffin, though. 

But they only shake their heads. “The overwhelming majority of those in my training den were students,” Leifsdottir confirms. 

“Same,” Rizavi says. “Not everyone was in my classes, but I recognized them around campus.” She eyes Hunk quizzically. “I recognize you too from some of my engineering classes, but your hair is...uh...alive, now.”

Hunk grins, a little sheepishly. “I’m a gorgon. Surprise. Uh...don’t tell anyone, please.”

“I’ll keep your secret if you keep ours,” Rizavi says. 

“Deal.” 

“Kinkade?” Griffin presses, keeping them on track. 

The dark-skinned man merely shakes his head again, pressing his lips together. After a moment he merely says, “Same,” and leaves it at that. 

As appalling as it is, Shiro can see why. College kids are adults, so attention wouldn’t immediately be drawn to their disappearance like a minor’s would. They’re independent enough that no one would think twice if they left to go ‘on a trip’ or ‘back home.’ But they’re still inexperienced enough in the world that it would be easy to manipulate them, especially if they were afraid and didn’t understand the whole situation. And Shiro has a gut feeling none of them had been aware of the cryptid community before they’d contracted lycanthropy. 

Still, something else they’ve said concerns him. “What do you mean, of the ones you’ve met?” Shiro asks, frowning. “It sounds like you came from different locations.”

“That’s because we did,” Griffin says, eyes narrowed. “Us here? We’re just some of the first successful transformations. They’ve got us split up all over under the city in different packs.” 

“Once people are bitten, they’re taken,” Rizavi confirms. “And you get put under observation for a month until they figure out if you’re infected or not. Some people don’t change, and they get bitten again.” 

Lance frowns. “That’s sick.”

“What happens if they do change?” Shiro presses, although he, too, has a twisting feeling in his gut. 

“They observe us through the first change,” Leifsdottir says. “If we survive the initial transformation, we are kept under surveillance and ‘trained’ to control it better.”

“The first change is...hard,” Griffin admits. He’s been straight-backed and in control until now, but now his spine curls forward as he pulls in just a little on himself, and his voice shakes slightly. “It’s...it’s really hard to focus. There’s so much input and instinct and...and it really hurts. You’re just wild. You could kill anyone. They keep you locked down until it’s over and then they force you to learn how to deal with it.” 

Shiro feels sick to his stomach at the thought. 

All this time... _ all this time  _ he, and every other being on the planet, Covenant or cryptid, has assumed lycanthropes of any kind were  _ always  _ wild and crazy. That they have no control anymore, no sentient mind, no rationality. That they’re bloodthirsty, that their only focus is to kill and kill and kill until they run themselves into the ground. All this time...and it’s been wrong. 

How many innocent lives had been taken, because a victim had been scared and confused and in pain, and didn’t know what was happening to them? How many people could have been  _ saved  _ if they’d taken the time to study the disease and to help people learn control, instead of just murdering them? 

How many times is Shiro going to have to learn this damned lesson?

“It’s good to learn how to manage it,” Kinkade speaks up, thoughtful. “But the rest of the training isn’t. They want soldiers. They want carnage. It’s...wrong.”

“Yeah,” Rizavi agrees, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t sign up for any of this. I just wanted a degree in engineering.”

“How come you didn’t just run?” Hunk asks, confused. “Go for help?”

Griffin spreads his hands wide in frustration. “Even if we could escape, who were we supposed to go to? I didn’t even know there  _ were  _ people or things other than humans until I got bit.” 

Leifsdottir nods in agreement. “They kept us under watch, but it was always made clear that it was to be ready for a transformation...not to keep us from running. We were told everyone outside the protection of the Galra training dens would want us to die for what we were. Especially these…’Covenant’ people that hunt monsters.”

Rizavi scowls. “They made it out like they were protecting us, giving us a place to stay. It didn’t feel right, but none of us wanted to die either. So we did what they said, because it seemed like the only option.”

Griffin nods. “Most people here are scared,” he says. “No one here’s a soldier. People just wanted to live. But if you’re not here to kill us…”

He eyes Shiro. His glance is cautious, but more trusting than before. All of them seem more willing to listen to him, and to believe him, now that he’d taken down Prorok to protect them. 

“I’m not,” Shiro promises. “Not unless you actually threaten innocent people.”

“None of us want that,” Griffin says, and the others nod vehemently in agreement. “All of us knew it felt kind of messed up, how they were teaching us to do so much damage. The four of us, we kept trying to figure out a way out of it, so we could save everyone without having to do what they wanted.” He gestures around at the others.

That certainly explains why they’d reacted so seamlessly together in the fight itself. Shiro can definitely see the first hesitant indications of a well-oiled machine in the four of them. All of them seem to have enough confidence and moral strength to have resisted the trappings of what sounded like some sort of lycanthropy cult, while still dealing with their own rapidly developing powers. 

“If you aren’t going to kill us,” Kinkade says, “Then what do we do now?”

“We can’t go home like this, can we?” Rizavi adds, staring at her hands. “Back to school? Or see our families again?” 

Shiro feels for them. These four are strong, but even so, he can tell they’re confused and scared. And if that’s how they are, the rest of the group of huddled students surrounding them have got to be even worse off. 

And he doesn’t have answers for them. Not really. No matter how hard they’re looking to him now for some. He’s only realizing now that he barely knows more than they do. 

But he can give them a place to start, at least. And he can help them take the first steps. 

“How much do you know about lycanthropy?” he asks them. “How much did they  _ really  _ explain to you?”

“Not much,” Griffin says. “They treated it like some sort of ‘ascension.’ I didn’t even know there were things other than werewolves until I turned into a lion for the first time.” 

Shiro presses his lips together for a moment, disgusted with Prorok and his cohorts, before he explains. “It’s not an ascension. It’s a disease. A lot like rabies.” 

He goes over everything he knows about lycanthropy- _ l,  _ the same things he’d told Lance, Hunk and Allura earlier, even as he seethes inside. Those bastards had been spreading a  _ disease  _ among perfectly healthy individuals. And all to create an army of monsters out of scared young men and women who didn’t have any place else to go. 

“Rabies is fatal, and has no cure, once symptoms begin to develop,” Leifsdottir says after a long moment, once Shiro finishes explaining the basics. “What about this?”

Shiro hesitates.

But lying won’t help them, not after everything they’ve been through. So he says, “After a bite has been received, but before the first transformation, there’s a tincture that can be used. It has a chance of preventing the disease from spreading, and it’s most effective the closer to the time of the bite it’s administered. But after transformation...as far as I know, there is no cure.”

He can all but see the light dimming in their eyes at the revelation. The students surrounding them sag, and a few start to whimper or sob. Kinkade and Leifsdottir stare at the floor, silent. Rizavi squeezes her eyes shut. Only Griffin speaks, his voice dull and devoid of emotion. “So we’re dead, then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

All four blink slowly. Even Hunk, Lance and Shay glance over, surprised. “What?”

“I said  _ as far as I know,  _ there’s no cure,” Shiro says. “But up until an hour ago, as far as I knew, lycanthropes had no remnants of sentience, and couldn’t control themselves after their first transformation. Obviously, that’s wrong, which means I could be wrong about the cure, too.”

That little thread of hope breathes life back into the four of them. Rizavi asks hesitantly, “So what does that mean for us?”

“It means we might still have options,” Shiro says. “But you’ll need to trust me on a few things, and be willing to help out in others.”

“In what way?” Griffin asks, cautious.

“For starters—absolutely no transforming,” Shiro says. “Not until we have a better handle on this. Lycanthropes die just as often from transformations gone wrong as they do from silver bullets. Heart attacks, ruptured internal organs, broken spines—human bodies aren’t made to change like this. Every time you do, either to a lion or back, there’s a chance you won’t live through it. Can you do that? Not change?”

The four of them glance at each other, and nod slowly.

“I think we can,” Griffin says, after a moment. “But it will be harder for some than others.”

Kinkade nods. “It’s hard to control,” he says softly. “And sometimes it feels like...you have to. There is an...instinct...to bite. To grow.” 

“But if we lead by example, maybe the rest can do it too,” Rizavi says, gesturing around at the others. 

“The ones in the training dens would still need help,” Leifsdottir says. “Some haven’t transformed yet, or have only done so once. Control is much more difficult then, especially with the instinct to attack others. But we could try to make them understand.”

“It’s a start.” Though not a great one. Even without transforming ever again, assuming they can keep a handle on that, Shiro has a bad feeling their lifespans might be shortened considerably due to what’s been done to them. 

Griffin seems to be thinking along the same lines. “What good will this do us?” he asks, after a long moment. “We’re only buying time with this.” 

“Time is exactly what we need—that’s the next part,” Shiro says. “We have contacts in the cryptid community. Cryptids who are medical professionals and scientists. Until now, no one has ever been able to seriously study lycanthropy, because people or creatures infected with it were always thought to be too dangerous and wild to contain. But if you’re willing to volunteer, let them study the disease and yourselves...it’s possible a cure could be found. Or at the very least, they could help you manage your symptoms.” 

“That’s not a guarantee,” Leifsdottir says. 

“No,” Shiro says. “I can’t guarantee it, and I won’t lie and promise you I can. But I  _ can  _ promise I can get you help, and access to resources who will respect you and do their best to help you, without treating you like a lab rat. With their assistance, maybe we can get you stable enough that you can go back to school safely, or go home.” 

“And you’d do that for  _ all  _ of us?” Griffin stresses. “Not just those of us here. Everyone—everyone in the dens, everyone who’s been bitten and put under observation. You’d make sure they  _ all  _ got that chance.” 

“Yes,” Shiro says, very firmly. “No one gets left behind.” 

Griffin seems to consider this. He glances around at the anxious, exhausted, frightened students huddled around them, at his three friends, and then back to Shiro. “Alright,” he says. “What do we need to do?”

Shiro smiles.

* * *

“What.  _ Happened,”  _ Keith hisses, incredulous. 

Shiro glances up from his discussion with Allura and the lycanthropes, just as Keith steps through into the study, to the delightful cheers of the four Witness Aeslin. Following him are Kolivan, Antok, and Thace, three high-ranking vampires of the Marmora Society, all dressed in uniform dark colors and all wearing cautious looks. 

“Is it night already?” Hunk says, bewildered.

“Oh,  _ man,  _ you missed some  _ serious  _ action, Keith,” Lance says, grinning. “That’s what you get for napping all day!” 

Keith scowls at him, before giving Shiro a frustrated and helpless look.

“You missed a lot, buddy,” Shiro says sympathetically. “Come here, and I’ll make the introductions. Kolivan—you should probably hear all of this too. I think the Marmora Society will want to mobilize for this.” 

Keith steps over to the rest of the group, frowning at Griffin and the others. Allura’s penthouse is getting awfully crowded, and with strangers to boot. “I got your message, so I called Kolivan right away. Werewolves? Really?”

“Werelions,” Shiro corrects. “And it’s gotten a little more complicated than that.”

He goes through everything they’d discovered since Keith had been involved last night. He starts from the discovery of the raccoon, to the realization that they were dealing with lycanthropy, to Shay’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue. 

Each time Shiro reaches an important point, his explanation is interrupted with “ _ HAILS!”  _ and “Praise the great wisdom of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness!” It’s normal, but frustrating, and certainly something the newcomers are unaccustomed to. Griffin and his friends are positively bewildered by the hyper-religious talking mice, and Kolivan mostly looks annoyed. Thankfully there are only four Aeslin, not a congregation, and the interruptions are easier to ignore. 

Keith is sorely put out at having missed so much, and especially at being completely unable to help with the fight in the sewers. It’s only exacerbated by Lance bragging about his usefulness in the fight, and the delighted agreement cheers of the mice, and Shiro can’t help but shake his head at that. No matter how well they get along, they’ll probably always be rivals to some extent.

Shiro also introduces Griffin, Rizavi, Kinkade and Leifsdottir, all of whom are surprised to find vampires are a real thing as well.

“Are all the things from the stories real?” Griffin asks, bewildered.

“Most of them,” Shiro says.

“Aren’t vampires and werewolves supposed to not get along?” Rizavi asks, frowning. “Does that apply to us?” 

“Not unless you threaten our lifestyle, or reveal us to others,” Kolivan says. A tall vampire with a long braid and a stern expression, Kolivan leads the reclusive Marmora Society with a strict adherence to their rules. The Society can be ruthless, when it comes to defending—or policing—their own, and Kolivan didn’t get to be the leader of the society by hesitating to exact that ruthlessness. He isn’t exactly a trusting sort, outside of the vampires under his protection, and usually Keith is the one that has to contact him if they need his help or information at all.

But for all that, he is also fair. Shiro has seen it enough times to know he means exactly what he says. Even knowing they’re lycanthropes, he won’t harm these kids unless they endanger his people. And knowing the full extent of the problem, he and the Marmora Society can almost certainly be counted on to assist with the cleanup. Other members of the Society will take his lead and follow his orders unconditionally, even if they’re not thrilled with the assignment, because they trust him and his decisions.

“You don’t hurt us, we won’t hurt you,” Griffin agrees. 

Kolivan nods curtly, then turns to look at Shiro. “With this Prorok defeated, what are the next steps you suggest, Shirogane?”

Keith frowns, and looks ready to object at the name, but Shiro cuts him off. “There’s still a lot of cleanup to do,” he says, addressing the group as a whole. “I asked for only a couple volunteers to bring to Allura’s for now, and these four were almost unanimously voted for.” He gestures to Griffin and the others. 

That hadn’t come as much of a surprise to Shiro. It had been clear most of the ‘successful’ werelions already viewed Griffin and his three friends as trustworthy figureheads. Griffin showed a clear knack for making calls, and Shiro wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up the leader of the little pack—pride?—before all this was over. His friends had the confidence and skill to survive their situation and back Griffin up, while providing insight to help him make the best possible calls. It was inevitable these four would be here, and they took their jobs of representing the rest of the lycanthropy victims seriously.

“But this isn’t a full representation of all the people affected by a long shot,” Shiro continues. “According to them, the group we found is only the  _ successful  _ lycanthropes who were capable of transforming and controlling their changes. Most of the group are students who were first bitten a while back. There’s more training ‘dens’ situated all throughout the underground, where others who have been bitten are either under observation, or being forced to master their transformative abilities. Our next goal is to find them and administer what aid we can.”

Kolivan frowns, and Keith asks, “Find them? You don’t know where they are?”

Leifsdottir shakes her head. “We know where the dens we were kept are, approximately,” she says. “I can give the exact location of mine, and based on descriptions from the others, I can calculate approximate positions of some others. But there are other dens we were not a part of, and can’t provide information on.” 

“That explains why you’d want us to mobilize,” Kolivan says curtly.

Shiro nods. “You’ve got the resources and the manpower to make the search a little faster,” he says. “We can start with the ones we know—we’ll send a few of your agents, accompanied by lycanthropes appointed by Griffin, who will make it clear we’re here to liberate them and help.” 

Allura looks up from the map table. A transparent overlay with a new set of maps of the underground has been placed over the city, and Allura has been carefully marking what locations she can, based on Leifsdottir’s calculations. The mice scurry across its surface as well, occasionally pointing out a missed detail or location to their goddess.

“I’ve been brewing Shiro’s remedy for lycanthropy,” she says. “Additionally, I have been speaking to the Aeslin mice, and several members of the congregation belonging to my father have volunteered to help identify those who have been infected.” 

The red-dyed mouse on the table puffs up its chest proudly and squeaks an enthusiastic, “ _ HAIL!”  _ at the top of its tiny lungs.

Allura nods absently to the mouse in recognition. “If the Marmora Society agrees to keep them safe, I will have one member of the congregation accompany each of the Society’s rescue teams. If someone was bitten but has yet to transform, and they agree to take the cure voluntarily, the rescuers can administer the tincture.” 

“That is possible,” Kolivan agrees. “I can ensure members on the teams will have medical or first responder experience.” It goes without saying that the Marmora Society has little interest in feeding on Aeslin mice, and being fully mature vampires, most of them are fully capable of defending themselves and a single rodent. 

“I’m putting together some sandwiches and stuff too,” Hunk adds. “Nothing fancy, and I had to order from a sandwich shop, there just wasn’t time to get the supplies to make it all myself. But these guys said they didn’t really get great food when they were captured, so I’m sure everyone else down below is starving.” 

He isn’t wrong there. One of the first things Allura had done was order the four lycanthrope students food. All of them are too thin and pale, and the constant transformations have stolen energy and nutrients their bodies can’t afford to lose. Each of them look a little better for the soup and sandwiches Coran had hastily thrown together for them, but it would be a long time before they were back on their feet again.

“Very well,” Kolivan agrees. “Once these lycanthropes are found, and cures administered where applicable, what are we doing with them?” 

“I have several of my agents preparing a safehouse at this moment,” Allura says. “The Atlas project was originally intended to be an apartment complex remodelled for cryptid housing. It’s still in development, but it has the necessary amenities to keep these lycanthropes safe and away from others until we have a more permanent solution. I already have Coran making calls regarding medical assistance and long-term planning.” 

“That just takes care of the human targets for this weird...Galra army project,” Keith points out. “What about all the racoons and whoever or whatever else that got bit?”

Shiro sighs. “That’s harder,” he says. “And unfortunately, it’s just going to take time to deal with that. The only way to really be sure rabies is gone from a population is to keep capturing specimens and testing them until you stop getting results. Lycanthropy is the same. We’ll have to stay on high alert for stories about wild animals on the loose in the city and test regularly until we’re sure the population is clear. Anyone who feeds on animals or mammal blood will need to screen where their meals are coming from to be safe. But there’s no way to know how far the infection has already spread, or how long it could take to wipe it out.”

“Farther than you might think,” Griffin admits, grim. “Accidental bites aren’t uncommon. Especially in the beginning, before Prorok and the others got better at identifying and restraining potential werelions. Some people didn’t get dragged below ground until after their first transformation.” 

Rizavi nods in agreement. “Yeah, and topside training made it worse. They made us go up to get used to handling all the sensory input and stuff above ground, and practice tracking and stuff. Some people, it was too much, and they lost control again.” 

“They would usually take us to places that were less populated,” Leifsdottir says. “But even if humans weren’t bitten, other creatures could have been.”

“Is that what happened on campus last night?” Hunk asks, eyes widening. “That student that Shay found…”

Griffin winces. “I heard about that,” he says. “That was...yeah. That wasn’t one of my group, but it’s all Prorok’s fault. That girl wasn’t supposed to be one of us at all from the sounds of it. She probably got bitten by something else that had contracted it, and her first change was last night. Without somebody to help you through it, it’s so easy to lose control. I doubt she even knew what she was doing.” He shrugs, looking guiltily at his feet. 

“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened,” Kinkade says softly. “But it is the first time evidence was left behind.”

“Prorok was pissed,” Rizavi agrees. “By the time he heard about it and hunted down the werelion to drag her below, you guys had gotten to the body. They’re usually pretty fast at cleaning up these messes, but not this time.” 

“Is the girl okay?” Lance asks, horrified.

“Don’t know,” Griffin says. “We never saw her. They would have taken her to one of the new dens. We just heard Prorok cursing about it afterwards.”

Shiro frowns. Yesterday he’d been dead-set on finding their killer. Now, it sounds like their killer is just as much of a victim. Even if she had survived her first transformation, she was infected for the rest of her now much shorter life with a disease hardly anyone knew about. And if she remembered anything at all that had happened last night, she’d probably be dealing with severe trauma for the rest of her life as well. All for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Shiro rarely feels  _ vindictive.  _ In his line of work, it’s dangerous, and a fine line to walk. But he finds himself coldly satisfied that he’d managed to at least take down the cause of all this with his own two hands and several well-placed bullets. 

At least there won’t be more victims like this unnamed girl.

“We’ll find her, if she’s still alive,” Shiro says. “And she’ll get the same assistance as everyone else.” 

Kolivan nods in agreement. “This was a disgusting practice, but at least there are methods to contain it,” he says curtly. “I will mobilize the Society at once into teams with at least one medical professional. We will work with Miss Altea’s Aeslin mice and the lycanthrope representatives to locate, treat, and rehome these werelions. Nonviolently, if possible, although if they insist on attacking they  _ will  _ be forcibly restrained for the safety of my men and themselves.” 

“As long as it’s nonlethal, that’s fair,” Shiro agrees. He doubts Kolivan’s teams would be in much danger, now that they understand the extent of Prorok’s army-building plan. Griffin’s pride of werelions had been one of the few successful fully-trained groups; the remainder hidden away in the other training dens would be unskilled and weak from nutrition deficiency and stress. They might act wildly, if they lacked control over their transformations or succumbed to the instinct to bite and spread the virus. But they would be no match for experienced, healthy vampires trained extensively in combat. 

“I will touch base with you once the initial search is over, Kolivan,” Allura adds. “We can combine our resources to build a proper lycanthropy-watch network, until we are sure the threat from any non-sentient infected cryptids has been neutralized in the city.” 

“Of course.”

“HAIL!” The Witness Aeslin cheer, overcome with religious ecstasy at so many of their icons working together. “HAIL THE WISDOM OF THE LION GODDESS! HAIL THE PLAN OF THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS! HAIL THE ASSISTANCE OF THE GREATEST OF THE BLOOD HUNTERS!”

“We’ll help with the search,” Shiro decides, ignoring the Aeslin and glancing around at Keith, Hunk and Lance. “As long as you’re all on board. It doesn’t sound like there’s at much risk now, and the extra set of eyes could be useful—”

“It isn’t safe,” Kinkade interrupts. “Not yet.”

Lance frowns at him. “I thought it was just a bunch of students and homeless people and stuff left?” he says. “You guys said they wouldn’t want to fight if they had a way out!” 

“They are not the threat,” Leifsdottir says, as the four lycanthropes exchange glances. “Your plan is efficient, but I do not believe it will be successful against Sendak.”

Shiro frowns. “Sendak?”

“The guy in charge of all this,” Rizavi says, eyes narrowing. “And a real piece of work.”

“What? Wait, wait,  _ wait,”  _ Hunk yelps. “I thought this Prorok guy was in charge! I thought all of the scary stuff was over!” 

But Griffin shakes his head, wearing a particularly grim expression. “Prorok was in charge of  _ us,”  _ he says, gesturing around at himself and his three companions. “And the whole werelion army. But he reported to people even higher up, like Sendak. This Sendak guy’s the whole reason any of them are even here. I think he’s overseeing something big.”

Shiro can feel a chill working its way up his spine. The danger isn’t over yet. Prorok had been a dangerous enemy, but if he wasn’t the head of the metaphorical snake, then they’ve just tipped their hand too early to the real mastermind. And he doesn’t know anything about who he’s facing—other than knowing they’re involved with  _ Galra,  _ whatever that is, and incredibly dangerous.

He forces his voice and expression to stay calm. “Have you ever seen him? Do you know where he is now?”

All four of them shake their heads. “He never bothered with us,” Rizavi says. “We just heard Prorok call him sometimes, to get orders or give updates. Sometimes Prorok would talk to Throk and Rezak about him too.” 

“There is one thing,” Kinkade says, slow and contemplative. “They talked of wanting blood on a grand scale. By Sendak’s orders.” 

Lance’s eyes narrow. “I’m guessing they don’t mean that like we’d want, for dinner,” he says, gesturing at himself and Keith. Keith frowns, expression dark. 

“No,” Allura says, an equally dark and furious expression on her face. “But it does explain why they are building an army in  _ my  _ city, and teaching you all to maximize on carnage.” 

“They’re preparing for a slaughter,” Shiro agrees. 

“But  _ why?”  _ Hunk asks, bewildered. “What’s the point of kidnapping a whole bunch of college students and homeless people and stuff, and using them to kill a bunch of other people? That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I know some cryptids hunt humans, or maybe don’t like them much, but  _ everyone  _ knows something like this is gonna drag the Covenant in.” 

He isn’t wrong. Unfortunately, they still know too little about this mysterious ‘Galra,’ or its motives, to really know what the bloodshed could be for. 

“For now, it doesn’t matter,” Shiro says. “The takeaway here is that we’ve still got the leader, Sendak, on the loose. That means we don’t have a handle on the lycanthropy- _ l  _ issue until we take him down. Until we do, everyone here is in immediate danger, and an outbreak is imminent.” 

Hunk makes a miserable little squeaking noise. His snakes hiss in response to his anxiety. “This  _ sucks.”  _

“Woe!” The Aeslin mice wail, in agreement with Hunk’s grumbling. “Woe the acknowledgement of Bad Situations!”

“So what do we do, Takashi?” Keith asks, still frowning. 

“We still need to evacuate those lycanthropes from the training dens,” Shiro says, after a moment of thought. “The longer they’re left down there, the longer Sendak has to get to them and manipulate them. Even if he never bothered with Prorok’s part of this...project...before, he’ll need to get control of those resources as soon as possible. We can’t let him, or give him a chance to use them as hostages.” 

He glances at Kolivan. “Of course, with Sendak as an unknown variable, this does put your teams in danger…”

Kolivan is a little too mature to scoff, exactly, but he definitely doesn’t look impressed by the warning. “As far as I and my people are concerned, there is no difference,” he states firmy. “The Marmora Society is well trained in combat, and have far more experience than any human, even a transformed one. If this Sendak shows his face during our search and rescue, we will kill him. Naturally, we will also protect the students we rescue, and the Aeslin mice assigned to our teams, out of respect for Miss Allura.” He nods to her. 

Shiro politely ignores the slight to himself...mostly because Kolivan isn’t speaking out of arrogance. The vampire is very skilled, and has a lot of years on Shiro. If they had to face off, Shiro’s not entirely sure he could come out the victor, and even if he did, Kolivan would almost certainly make him work for that victory. 

“We’re not scared either,” Griffin says. “We’ll still help find the dens and convince people everything’s okay. What’s the worst he can do to us at this point? We’re already werelions.”

“He can kill us,” Leifsdottir points out blandly.

“Not with attack vampires on our side,” Rizavi says, surprisingly cheerfully, and seemingly ignorant of Kolivan’s sour look in her direction.

“Alright,” Shiro agrees. “Then that part of the plan doesn’t change. I’d rather get the jump on Sendak if I can, though...he sounds too dangerous to just allow to wander freely.” He turns to the four werelions. “Is there anything you can give me on this guy at all? Anything you might have overheard?”

Griffin glances at the others. “Well...I think he called Prorok about the student that was killed on the campus. The one you guys found. And from the sounds of it, he was  _ pissed. _ ”

Rizavi nods in agreement. “Prorok was supposed to be watching all of us. Even if they’re gearing up to kill a lot of people like you said, I guess it wasn’t supposed to happen until Sendak said so. Otherwise…well, otherwise  _ this  _ happens.” She waves a hand around at everyone in the room.

“Prorok was supposed to clean up all ‘loose ends’ regarding the killing,” Leifsdottir summarizes. “If he did not, Sendak would, and punish him for his failure. I imagine this ‘Galra’ does not punish lightly, because Prorok was angry and afraid.” 

“And he didn’t finish,” Kinkade concludes. “You were the loose ends. You were supposed to die down there.” 

“Okay, I do  _ not  _ like the sound of this,” Hunk hisses. “This is bad. There’s a scary man who wants to kill a bunch of people after  _ us  _ specifically. Why is no one else freaking out?”

“I’m freaking out,” Lance says. He does, in fact, look nervous, so much so that a few spines are involuntarily sprouting from his shoulders and head. 

Shiro can feel his own face going pale, but it’s not out of concern for his own safety. “No,” he says, coming to his feet. “it’s worse than that. Shay is back on campus—she’s also a loose end. And, depending on how badly he wants to cover this up, anyone else who knows about the killing or may have seen the body. Police, first responders, campus security, and any other students in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

“That’s...a lot of people,” Keith says slowly, eyes widening in growing realization. “And if he’s being really thorough, he’ll check the site of the attack too, and search for any other evidence that might give him away.”

“Then everyone on that campus is potentially in danger,” Allura summarizes, standing upright and drawing her wings back, angry and determined.

“Alright,” Shiro says. “Kolivan—your people will have to do the underground search on their own. I’m heading back to the campus. If Sendak is heading back to ground zero, I’ll find him—and if he’s after me, or Shay, I’ll get the drop on him first.” 

“You’re not going alone,” Keith says, fierce and determined. “I’m the best backup you have at night.”

“If Keith’s going, I’m going,” Lance says. He manages to get his panic under control enough to retract his spines, as he assumes a look of competitive fierceness. “I’ve already fought werelions, I’ll be useful.”

“Oh  _ man,”  _ Hunk moans. “I really don’t  _ want  _ to, but if you guys are in danger, and Shay’s in danger, and all the students who don’t even  _ know  _ they’re in danger are in danger...I’ll help. I’d feel bad if I didn’t.” 

“No one is obligated,” Shiro says. “And Lance and Keith—you two especially are in danger here. One bite is all it might take.” 

“Don’t care,” Keith says. “Still going.” Lance nods in agreement, and Hunk follows suit after a moment.

“Alright. If I can’t talk you out of it, then the help is appreciated.” He turns to Allura. “Keep an eye out, and be ready to call authorities if needed.” 

“I will,” she promises. “And be  _ careful,  _ all of you. Garrison cannot afford to lose you.”

“Don’t worry,” Lance says, suddenly all confidence and bravado, as he gives her what’s probably intended to be a roguish grin but mostly just looks goofy. “We got this.” 

“Hail the Bravery of the High Priest of An Extremely Large Number of Pointy Ends!” the Witness mice interject. Lance’s goofy grin becomes more pleased, between the latest priest name the mice are testing on him, and the blatant praise.

Shiro certainly hopes they do have this. One way or another, this is ending  _ tonight.  _ Whether it ends in victory, or in a violent bloodbath, is yet to be determined.


	14. Gorgos stheno: Part Five

“It’s a hazard of the job. When you decide to be the immovable object standing in front of the unstoppable force, you’d better pray that you’re right about being immovable, and they’re wrong about being unstoppable.”  
—Verity Price, _Midnight Blue-Light Special_

**_On the Garrsion University campus, where it is way too cold for this time of year_ **

Two thirty in the morning finds Shiro shivering out in the open on the Garrison University campus grounds, slowly beginning to regret his decision. 

It had seemed so straightforward. With a killer on the loose, one willing to sacrifice dozens of students and take thousands of lives, Shiro had figured the best choice he could possibly make was to paint a target on himself. If Sendak came after him, an obvious target wandering the grounds, then he wasn’t going after others. It was risky, but Shiro was a thousand times more capable of defending himself against that danger than innocent civilians. 

But Sendak hasn’t shown up. Shiro’s been wandering the campus for hours now, making himself deliberately easy to find as he searches outside campus buildings and close to overhead lights. And yet, there hasn’t been so much as a threatening glance in his direction. 

The others haven’t seen anything either. Hunk doesn’t wander far, nervous and anxious and rubber-necking madly over his shoulder every thirty seconds, but he doesn’t see or hear anything unusual. Lance is a little braver, occasionally ducking into the shadows and melding into his quadrupedal form to do a quick looping patrol around them. His chupacabra form’s night vision is poor, but he still tries to sniff out if anyone is watching and waiting, and comes out with nothing to show for his efforts. Keith, their best night hunter by far, does much wider circuits and keeps an eye on them from a distance, but even his well-attuned night vision catches hide nor hair of a werelion leader. 

Shiro doesn’t like it. The more time passes, the more he has a bad feeling he made the wrong call. If he isn’t here, Sendak must have an ulterior motive. Maybe he’s hiding in the sewers, ready to pick off one of Kolivan’s Marmora teams, or the unsuspecting fledgling werelions. 

Except so far there’s no problems there, either. Keith is in regular contact with Kolivan through texts, and Shiro has a direct line to Allura. Neither one has reported anything going wrong. In fact, so far Kolivan’s teams have been successful; they’ve found three of the training dens and secured about twenty-six werelions between them. There had been a couple of aggressive moments, according to the reports. But Griffin and Kinkade had both been able to talk down the aggressors, and so far there have been no casualties on any side. In short, it’s going perfectly. 

So where the hell is their mastermind? 

“I feel personally offended,” Lance mutters, after he circles back to Shiro and Hunk for the fifth time in the past hour in his human form again. “Here we are, showing up to get assassinated, being good little loose ends, and nobody even shows up. Where _are_ they?”

“I’m okay if they don’t show up,” Hunk mutters. “I’m really, really okay with that.”

“I don’t exactly want to get killed either, but I just wish this guy would get it _over_ with, whatever he’s doing,” Lance says, crossing his arms over his chest and rubbing them. “It’s still kind of chilly at night. Not that I can’t handle it, but I’d rather be asleep. It’s three in the morning! What self respecting person is up this late wandering around like a loser?”

“Keith is always up this late,” Hunk points out. 

“Like I said. What _self-respecting_ person is up this late wandering around like a loser?” 

“No one’s keeping you here, Lance,” Shiro says. “You can go home if you’re uncomfortable. I would still really prefer if you did.”

“And get picked off the moment I go off on my own?” Lance says. “No way.”

“You’ve been going off on your own all night,” Hunk points out.

“Not that far! I’m still within yelling distance.”

“You’re still—”

“Guys!” Keith interrupts, materializing seemingly out of thin air in the darkness. Lance jumps with a yelp of surprise, which causes Hunk to bellow in reactionary panic as well. Shiro manages to keep his expression calm, but he can’t keep a hand from reaching for one of his silver knives instinctively, or his heart from pounding reflexively. 

Keith winces. “Sorry, I didn’t—look, I was doing another circuit, but I think I smelled smoke. Do you guys?”

Hunk shrugs, and Shiro shakes his head, but Lance sticks his nose in the air and takes a sampling sniff. “Stupid useless people noses,” he mutters, before glancing around hastily for witnesses and dropping to all fours in his chupacabra shape. His much more doglike nose raises to the air and takes another, deeper whiff, and his canine head cocks for a moment before nodding hesitantly. 

“It’s not close,” Keith says. “I wasn’t sure if I was just imagining it. There’s so many scents here.”

Lance shakes his head, then jerks it in one direction, gesturing for the others to follow. He takes off, with Keith easily on his heels. 

“Lance, _wait!”_ Hunk yelps, stumbling into a hasty run after him. 

Shiro frowns. Smoke? Something is certainly happening; it’s no coincidence that this would come up tonight. But how does it factor into everything that’s happened so far? He settles into an easy lope after the others as his mind runs a thousand miles a minute, trying to figure out the puzzle before it costs someone.

It doesn’t take long for Lance to lead them at a breakneck pace across the campus. Shiro is barely able to keep up with him. Lance is certainly booking it, and a sprinting chupacabra is not something a human was ever designed to keep up with. 

But he can follow in the general direction, at least. And after five minutes, he doesn’t even need Lance’s guidance anymore. He can smell the first acrid scents of smoke on his own, weak and distant but unmistakable. And worse still, he can see the faint orange glow in the distance, several stories up and visible despite the wash of campus lights. 

Hunk gapes in horror. “That’s my dorm building!” he yelps. “That’s where I _live!_ That’s where _Shay_ lives! And where a lot of _other_ people live!”

Shiro’s stomach plummets. “Why isn’t the alarm going off?” he says, voice sharp. “If we can see it and smell it from here, at least _one_ of the smoke alarms should have been triggered.”

“Unless they were tampered with,” Keith says, materializing out of the gloom, voice grim. 

Shiro’s eyes narrow. _Blood on a grand scale..._ this would certainly accomplish that. And bury any witnesses in the process—like Shay, who was probably still in there, and Hunk, who was supposed to be. 

Shit.

His mind races. Is this a plot of Sendak’s? Is this his method of cleaning up? Does he have some kind of ulterior motive? Is this some kind of move in the overall scheme of Galra’s?

And does it even matter? It’s almost three in the morning, in the middle of the week. That building has got to be nearly full—all but the wildest night owls will be in bed for morning classes. These people need to be saved, even if it means playing into Galra’s hands. He could never forgive himself if he did anything less.

“We need to get everyone out of there— _now._ Keith, Lance—call the fire department and then figure out how to get that building evacuated. Do anything you can think of.”

Lance has already shifted back to his bipedal form and has his cell phone out of his pocket, dialing 911. Keith’s response is less immediate. “And leave you alone against Sendak? I’m your best backup in a night fight. You need me.”

“Those people need you more,” Shiro says. And at Keith’s skeptical look, he adds, “Look, Keith, of all of us you need to breathe the least and use the least amount of oxygen. That makes you the _best_ candidate for going into a smoke-filled building and getting people out without dying of asphyxiation. They’re running out of time as we speak. I’ll be fine, now _go._ ”

Keith grits his teeth, which displays his fangs in a frightening-looking grimace. But after a moment, he nods. “Okay. Fine. Just...don’t die.” And he vanishes into the shadows again, heading in the direction of the burning building.

Lance hangs up the phone just a few moments later. “Firemen are on their way,” he reports. 

“Good. Be careful helping Keith. You’re a lot more susceptible to the smoke than he is.”

Lance grins, although the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got an idea already on how I can help. You guys just be careful.” And he, too, disappears into the darkness of the campus.

Hunk moans next to Shiro. “Oh man. Oh _man._ What if Shay gets hurt? What if everyone else gets hurt? What if my _stuff_ burns? I don’t have any place else to live if my dorm burns down!”

“Hunk. Look at me.” 

This is not exactly the _wisest_ thing to say to a gorgon of any kind, but it does show a sense of trust that Hunk no doubt recognizes. Hunk blinks behind his polarized glasses, but after a moment he does meet Shiro’s eyes. “Y...yeah?”

“Everything will be fine.” Shiro promises. He’d like to put his hand on Hunk’s shoulder, just to solidify he means exactly what he says, but it’s also not a wise move with any agitated creature that has independent venomous snakes for hair. “No matter what happens, we will figure it out. But for now, we have to focus on keeping ourselves alive. Sendak is still in play, and we’re down half our team. So let’s focus, okay?”

“Okay,” Hunk says, swallowing. “Okay. Right. Yeah. Scary guy’s still out there.” 

“Yes. More than that, he’s probably responsible for the fires—which means he might try it with other dorms, or he’s using this as a diversion to split our strengths.”

“Very astute, Shirogane. The legends of your clan’s prowess are not overstated.”

Shiro whirls, so fast that Hunk yelps in surprise and his hair starts hissing wildly beneath its illusion. Silver knives are in his hands in seconds and raised defensively as Shiro takes a ready stance, already searching for the enemy by the dim cast of the nearby campus security lights. 

He’s ready for an attack, but shockingly, Sendak doesn’t strike immediately. He stands maybe thirty paces away, shoulders back and standing tall. His bearing his military, his expression cold and self-assured. He’s tall and thickly built, all sharp angles and strong muscle, with a squarish face, close-cropped hair, and only one single eye. It glares at Shiro intently, but with far too much intelligence and deliberate malevolence for his liking. The empty socket next to it only makes things worse; Sendak hasn’t bothered to hide it or the ragged scarring around it with a patch, and the dark depths seem to hint at even darker thoughts in the mind behind it. 

“My mistress was right to fear your intervention,” Sendak concludes, watching Shiro coldly. “I am glad my orders were made clear in advance.” 

Shiro’s eyes narrow. Sendak is too far away for him to get a good knife throw in that will do any damage, and too far to charge, especially if he’s also some kind of werelion. He could try shooting, but firing a gun on a college campus at three in the morning was sure to draw more attention than any of them want, and could hurt a bystander besides. The crossbow and silver-tipped quarrels still stored in the bag slung over his shoulder would be perfect, but there’s no way for him to get it out in time without Keith or Lance making a decent distraction.

He needs to stall, until he can find an opportunity to strike. As long as he’s got Sendak in his sights, he can’t hurt anyone else.

“Did you light the fires?” Shiro snarls, voice cold. Behind him, Hunk makes the tiniest whimper, and belatedly Shiro probably realizes he’s never seen his _Shirogane_ side in action before while truly, unconditionally furious. It’s not a pretty sight for any cryptid.

“I ordered it so,” Sendak admits, without a shred of shame or regret.

 _“Why?”_ Hunk asks, unable to conceal the horror in his voice—but there’s anger there too, anger for a group of people incapable of defending themselves against _this._ “How does torching an entire dorm of helpless people help you get your stupid werelion army?”

“I don’t care about the army,” Sendak says. “I allowed it because it suited our purpose, but that was Prorok’s idea, and Prorok was always a fool that never understood the true intent of Galra. Nor did he understand the mistress’ ways of building on those intentions. She needs blood, and she will _have_ blood. If not by her virus, then in other, faster ways.” 

Shiro grits his teeth. This man wasn’t fooling around. He was willing to torch a few hundred students for this _Galra,_ and this mysterious mistress, without a shred of mercy or guilt. And he’d simultaneously managed to split Shiro’s team and bring down the strength of his enemies by half. Sendak is both ruthless _and_ intelligent, and if Shiro doesn’t take him down fast, there’s no telling what kind of carnage he could cause.

So he narrows his eyes, shifts his stance back defensively just a fraction, and snarls, “You’re not hurting any more people. Not on this campus, not anywhere else.”

Sendak’s single eye narrows, and he says with absolute conviction, “Yes. I will.” 

And he charges.

Shiro fully expects Sendak to transform into an enormous lion, and he’s prepared for it, already ducking sideways out of a lion’s strike range. What he _doesn’t_ anticipate is for Sendak to grow to almost ten feet in height, or for him to retain his humanoid shape while gaining bulging muscles, enormous claws and teeth, and a coating of thick protective fur. His form is somewhere between human and lion, but maintains a shocking amount of grace and coordination as he rushes forward. 

Shiro’s dodge is perfect for escaping a lion, but Sendak’s humanoid form has a longer reach and rudimentary clawed hands that he simply hadn’t anticipated. He tries to twist in time to strike with one of his silver knives, but the blade passes harmlessly through thick fur. 

One enormous clawed hand draws back and lashes out with surprising speed and dexterity, and Shiro gasps as it cannons into his side and sends him flying. He smashes hard into a bench and collapses onto cold pavement, stunned. 

_“Shiro!”_ Hunk shrieks, alarmed and horrified.

Shiro groans. His mind spins, and suddenly everything _hurts._ He can hear Hunk yelling frantically. Beyond that—deeper than that—he can hear the panicked screams and tearing flesh of years ago in France, the snarls of hungry wolves, and the stench of blood and death. 

No, no, no. Not again. Not _now._ This was going to be _different._ Not like that. Not like _that._

But it is. It’s all wrong. He’d fucked up—he’d never anticipated _this._ What the hell _was_ Sendak? He’s never heard of lycanthropes doing that. Not even Griffin and the others had known about this third form. He’s too big, he’s too strong, he’s too smart, there’s no way Shiro can beat that...he’d barely survived the incident in France, and this is so much worse...he _can’t,_ and everyone is going to pay the price for his failure—

“Shiro!” Hunk yells. “Shiro, get up!”

 _Focus._ His mind is swimming, still, but clarity is starting to come back now, and forcibly overrides the panic. He’s not dead yet, and until he is, he’s fighting with every scrap of willpower he’s got left. 

He falls into old Covenant training immediately, skills he’s honed to razor perfection over the years, evaluating himself as fast as he can.

 _Status check._ He can still move. His back hurts, but it doesn’t feel like it’s broken, so he can fight. Dazed, but probably no concussion. Arm and side are bleeding— _oh god, bleeding because of a lycanthrope, no no no no—_ but not so badly he can’t move them. No chance of infection from claw wounds, but he’s going to have to be careful about exposure. 

_Gear check._ He can feel his personal weapons still strapped to his body or hidden in pockets, jamming into his arms, legs and torso uncomfortably, but secure. Weapons bag—gone. Not ideal, but he has enough on him to make it work, at least until he can retrieve it. One of the knives is gone from his hand, but he can replace that with his personal inventory. Anti-gorgon polarized glasses—not on his face. He feels around in front of him with his eyes squeezed close until he finds them and shoves them back onto his nose. The last thing he needs is for Hunk to accidentally stun him when trying to help.

With his eyes protected, he finally forces them open. His vision swims for a moment, and comes back into focus just in time to see Sendak charging him again.

Shiro curses. He struggles to his feet, but while he’s already regaining his mobility, his legs still feel wobbly beneath him. Damn—Sendak hit like a _tank._ He raises one of his silver knives anyway, glaring at Sendak as the werelion closes in, leaning on the park bench he’d hit for support.

“Leave him alone!” Hunk yells, as he charges in from the side. His spelled headband is down around his neck, leaving his snakes exposed, and all of them are hissing and spitting wildly. Several of the snakes strike lightning-fast at Sendak’s arm as he closes in, and the rest twist and writhe defensively around Hunk’s skull, agitated. 

The strikes don’t hit, unfortunately. But they do cause Sendak to swerve aside or risk being bitten; not even a lycanthrope of Sendak’s size or form would be able to survive multiple doses of pliny’s gorgon venom. Sendak slides to a halt and whirls to face Hunk, giving Shiro enough time to fully gain his feet.

Hunk, although nervous, doesn’t hesitate to fight back with everything he has. His polarized glasses whip off, and as one all of his snakes turn in unison to glare in Sendak’s direction, still hissing and writhing violently. 

A unified effort from a pliny’s gorgon like that is enough to temporarily stun even a full-sized adult lindworm, and Shiro hastily rechecks his own protective glasses again on his nose. But Sendak doesn’t drop from even momentary paralyzation, and when Shiro glances at his face, he realizes with shock that Sendak’s one remaining eye is closed. 

Damn. On top of everything else, Sendak is smart enough to know how to defend against other cryptids. How the hell are they supposed to beat him?

Hunk makes a soft, inelegant squeak of surprise when his stun fails. After a moment, he realizes his mistake, and tries to run forward into his hair’s striking range again. 

But his momentary hesitation costs him. With a snarl Sendak stoops low, whirls out with one leg, and sweeps Hunk’s legs out from beneath him, safely out of range of the striking snakes. Hunk yelps as he crashes to his back, and his snakes hiss and snap at each other wildly in surprise, without a better target to attack. 

It’s not ideal—but it _is_ enough time for Shiro to get his wits together. 

_New strategy,_ he decides. _I’m never going to win a contest of strength against Sendak. Which means I need to be smarter and faster._

Drawing a second silver knife to replace the lost one, he darts forward, silent and quick. With Sendak’s one eye closed still, he’s completely blinded, and Shiro takes advantage of it, lashing out with the blades at Sendak’s still lowered face.

Sendak’s ears twitch, and he twists away at the last moment, wrenching his good eye open to glare balefully in Shiro’s direction. Shiro doesn’t hesitate to twist the second knife and strike again, and this time he’s rewarded with the feel of resistance on the blade as it digs through flesh. It’s just a tiny cut beneath Sendak’s good eye, but it’s all he needs. 

Sendak isn’t invulnerable, and Shiro _can_ hit him.

Sendak snarls wordlessly and whips one of his enormous clawed hands around to lash at Shiro again. But now Shiro has the measure of his range, and isn’t caught off guard by this new form. He manages to duck under the blow at the last moment, and slash up with one of the knives, scoring another cut in the fleshier underside of Sendak’s heavily muscled arm. 

Sendak snarls again, and tries a different maneuver, smashing downwards at Shiro’s unprotected head. Shiro manages to roll back at the last minute, gaining his feet as thick claws gouge into harded, cold earth, and then ducks towards Sendak’s side for another slash. 

He can’t do a lot of damage, he discovers quickly. The thick fur coating on the humanoid form halves the power of Shiro’s cuts, even using silver, and at best he’s doing little more than nicking Sendak here or there. Sendak’s throat and part of his torso are protected by an even thicker mane-like coating of hair that serves the same defensive purpose it does on a regular male lion, and there’s no way Shiro’s going to be able to cut through it like this. 

But Shiro’s not dying either—and Sendak, for all his intelligence and strength, doesn’t seem to have much experience with his opponents surviving _this_ long in a match against him in this form. If Shiro can just hold out long enough for the right opportunity...maybe this won’t be completely hopeless.

So he ducks and dodges, nicks Sendak here or there with a silver blade, and does his best to not die. Sendak gets a glancing blow at him once or twice, and Shiro’s already hurting where he’d taken more than one hard dive to the ground to dodge a strike. Everything is a flurry of movement in the darkness; all of Shiro’s focus is on the fight. 

Once or twice, he catches Hunk hovering on the sidelines, glasses back on but hand anxiously hovering on the temples. He can’t get involved without potentially hurting or killing Shiro. Shiro barely has time to even think on it. 

And then opportunity strikes, literally, in the form of a sharp jab from one of Sendak’s massive clawed hands. Shiro twists aside just in time, and with a snarl, rams his right silver knife down through the back of Sendak’s left hand, clean through to the other side.

Sendak _shrieks,_ and for the first time he looks genuinely startled and in pain. It’s not a killing blow by any means, but it is a crippling one, and Shiro can already see the skin starting to blacken around the blade everywhere it severs flesh.

Shiro lashes with his other knife to press the advantage, but he underestimates Sendak. The werelion snarls, and using his own impaled hand despite what has to be excruciating pain, backhands Shiro hard enough to once again send him flying. 

Shiro sees stars as he’s sent reeling for a second time, and hears the clatter of his silver knife hitting the concrete of the campus walkway as he loses it. He hits the frozen ground hard, with an agonized gasp of pain as he slams down on his wounded side and arm. But this time he doesn’t smash into any decor, and manages to turn his momentum into a safety roll, sliding shakily to his feet with his head still spinning.

Sendak is already charging him again, fangs bared in a furious snarl, uninjured hand drawing back for a devastating strike. Hunk chases after him, frantic, but he’s too far behind Sendak and definitely wouldn’t be able to intervene on time. 

Shiro sets his jaw and crouches, shaking away his spinning vision. If Sendak thinks he can outmatch Shiro just because he’s bigger, stronger, and faster, he’s got another damn thing coming. And if he thinks Shiro’s completely helpless just because he doesn’t have any knives out, he’s about to be sorely disappointed.

Sendak lunges, lashing out with his stronger arm. Shiro ducks aside, snatches the extended wrist with one arm and slams his other palm into the werelion’s stomach, and lets his opponent’s own momentum and weight do the rest. He hurls Sendak past him into a set of landscaped bushes and trees, with the werelion yowling in surprise the whole way.

“ _Gods,”_ Hunk yelps, as he stumbles up a safe distance away, snakes still hissing wildly. “Did you just _throw_ him?”

“Old Shirogane technique,” Shiro says, wincing a little and pressing his good hand to his side. The move was not intended to be used with a wounded arm or torso, but one did what one had to. “Big monsters never expected tiny weak humans to pull that off. Always catches them by surprise.”

“I’ll say,” Hunk says, with a mix of awe and fear.

Shiro can already see Sendak thrashing about in the bushes as he tries to free himself from the tangle of branches and thorns, and figures they have maybe fifteen seconds at best to prepare. And he’s fast running out of options. Sendak is just too damn strong in close combat, and that trick’s not going to work again. All it takes is one hit to send Shiro reeling, and he can’t take too many more before he’s down for the count. He needs _range,_ and a chance to make a plan.

Then he hears the first sirens, and his heart plummets into his stomach. 

_Shit._

“We need to go,” he says sharply to Hunk, whirling. It’s not easy to see in the dark, but he catches sight of his discarded weapons backpack in the glow of one of the campus lights. He snatches it up by the straps as he runs past it, and picks a direction opposite both the sirens and Sendak. “Hurry, Hunk!”

“Wh—wait for me!” Hunk yelps, running after him. “What’s the rush? Aside from the terrifying lion-man, anyway? Which, okay, fair, good reason to rush, I get it—”

“The firemen are here,” Shiro says, interrupting the nervous rambling and jerking his head towards the sirens. “And probably other first responders. If they hear a fight, they’ll investigate. If they do, Sendak will slaughter them. He doesn’t care about subtlety anymore, he wants blood. We need a place in this direction that’s got cover, where we can finish this without anyone getting involved. Any ideas?”

“Um, um, cover, a place with cover…” Hunk rubbernecks madly as he runs, snakes hissing in agitation, and then points. “There! It’s the campus center. Nobody will be there this late. Some food places, open hang out areas, the theater...the side door’s always open, they never remember to lock it.”

“Good. Lead on.” 

Hunk does, and locates the door in record time. As promised, it’s unlocked. They squeeze their way in as quickly and quietly as they can, and Hunk locks it behind them. It won’t hold Sendak for long, Shiro’s sure, but at least it will buy a few precious seconds.

Once indoors, Shiro starts pulling the collapsible crossbow and silver-tipped quarrels out of the bag he’d salvaged, arming the weapon. If he has to he’ll switch to firearms, but with police no doubt on the scene on the other side of the campus, that’s asking for a whole new level of trouble. 

“What now?” Hunk asks anxiously.

“Look for some place defensible. We need range and a way to keep Sendak at a distance,” Shiro murmurs, setting a bolt in place. 

“Got it.”

They wander through the halls, looking around as fast as they can. Unfortunately, the campus center was never designed with lycanthropy defense in mind, and its open spaces—while ideal for club gatherings or getting a meal—offer little in the way of protection. There are a few little reading nooks where Shiro might be able to get a stealthy shot off, but he’d be exposed after with no place to run. 

A loud banging sound from behind them heralds Sendak’s arrival. First one thud, then two, and then a heavy, shattering _crash_ as the door they’d entered is ripped off its hinges. 

“Oh man, oh man,” Hunk moans. “This is bad, this is really, _really_ bad…”

Shiro agrees. They’re out of time and they still don’t have a place to fight from. 

They break into a run, pelting down one of the halls. “The auditorium is there,” Hunk says, pointing at a set of doors to one side of the open, wide hallway. “Maybe there’s something we can use—”

A figure steps out around the corner on the far end of the hallway, past the auditorium doors. It’s difficult to tell at first, in the dim emergency lights the building always has on, but the man is tall and lanky, wearing a campus security guard’s vest. As they get closer, Shiro recognizes the man as the same narrow-faced security guard that had been overseeing the alcove where the murder had taken place that morning. 

Shiro curses under his breath. He hadn’t wanted to get any innocent civilians in trouble, but with Sendak only seconds behind them, this man is in danger. Of all the worst times to run across a guard doing a routine patrol!

He’s not sure that he can save the guard, but he tries anyway. “Hey! Get out of the building!” he shouts, as he discreetly lowers the crossbow and keeps it obscured at his side. Hopefully the dimness of the building will help disguise the fact that he’s armed. Thank goodness he’d chosen against the guns. “There’s an arsonist on the campus—he’s behind us—the building might be on fire already—run!”

“An arsonist?” the man calls back. He’s still maybe thirty feet distant, which hopefully is keeping him from noticing anything unusual, like the fact that Hunk’s hair is made of living snakes. “I can—”

“No, you really need to get out, like now,” Hunk says, a little frantic. “Can’t you smell the smoke? We all gotta get out!”

There’s an alarming crash behind them, and Sendak steps around the corner into the hallway. Shiro curses again, as Hunk whips around to face Sendak with a small whine, as back-to-back as possible with Shiro while having living, venomous snakes for hair. There’ll be no way to explain this off, not now, not when Sendak’s head nearly touches the ceiling and he’s built like a damn tank.

But a moment later, Shiro’s stomach ices over as Sendak says in a rough, harsh voice through his not-quite-human jaw, “Good. You cut them off, Haxus.”

“Of course, sir,” the security guard answers, with a smug look. 

“The building is sufficiently prepared?”

“There will be nothing left by morning,” Haxus confirms. “The flames are already high. I began preparing the next one, but thought it prudent to prioritize the Shirogane, per the mistress’ orders.”

“Excellent work, Haxus.” Sendak says. His smile is cold and cruel. “We will finish killing these two and continue preparing the site for her.” 

“The other two members of his team are attempting to evacuate the building,” Haxus reports. 

“Let them try. We will kill them after as well. Without them to interfere, it will be easy to raze everything to the ground.” 

Shiro scowls darkly. “You’re one of them.”

“Of course I am,” Haxus says. “After Prorok’s idiocy, I was chosen to clean up his mess. The moment I saw you this morning, I knew there would be problems, and I notified my commander immediately. The mistress wanted the virus tested, but Prorok’s attempts went too far and gained the wrong attention. Fool.” 

The hallway shudders slightly as Sendak takes a heavy step forward. “You did well. I will ensure Galra recognizes your actions this day.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Shiro!” Hunk hisses under his breath. “What do we do?” 

It’s a good question. They’re trapped in a campus hallway between Sendak and Haxus. The auditorium doors are still to their left, and might make a viable exit point, but only if they can get there. Sendak is too fast to outrun, and Shiro would be a fool if he didn’t anticipate Haxus being a werelion, either.

They’ll need to catch the two by surprise then. Just long enough to buy a few seconds of precious time.

Shiro leans back as far as he dares, and prays he’s out of striking distance of the agitated snakes he can hear hissing behind him. “Hunk,” he murmurs, low under his breath, and makes a second prayer to the universe that the lycanthropes’ hearing isn’t all that great, “on the count of three, we’re going to swap places, okay? We both rotate to our left so you don’t run into me. Stun Haxus. I’ll deal with Sendak.”

Hunk makes a nervous noise in the back of his throat, but after a moment says so softly Shiro barely hears him under the hissing snakes, “O-okay.”

“Good. One—”

Haxus takes a step forward, skin already beginning to ripple as he shifts into a smaller and wirier but no less deadly third-form werelion. 

“—Two—”

Sendak takes a thundering step forward of his own, snarling, “Kill them—”

“Three!”

Shiro immediately whirls to his left, raising his crossbow as he does. He feels the rush of movement behind him, the angry hissing and spitting of many angry snakes, and a shocked yelp from Haxus. Then Sendak is in front of him, still ten paces away and closing fast. 

Shiro pulls the trigger on the crossbow, and fires a silver-tipped quarrel point-blank at Sendak.

He’d been aiming for center mass, just below the thick mane-like fur on Sendak’s transformed body. To his frustration, but not his surprise, he misses—Sendak is too aware by half, and manages to dodge a lethal shot. 

The crossbow quarrel does lodge deeply into his shoulder just below his collarbone, though, and Sendak shrieks in genuine agony as he reels back in surprise. The bolt lodges deep, too deep for Sendak’s enormous clawed hands to easily yank out, and will definitely impede movement. He claws at it anyway out of pure instinct, momentarily distracted by his own direct pain.

 _“Move!”_ Shiro yells, bolting for the auditorium door.

He glances to his other side, where Hunk hastily bolts after him, shoving his glasses back on his face. Down the hall, Haxus’ eight-foot humanoid-werelion form jerks and twitches spasmodically, frozen in place but already fighting the effects.

“S’not gonna last long,” Hunk warns, a frightened look on his face. “Didn’t last long on the other werelions and these guys are _way_ stronger. Go!”

Shiro goes. He reaches the auditorium doors within seconds, while Sendak howls behind him. The double doors are locked, but not well, and Shiro is able to forcibly shoulder them open with a little well-applied force. He and Hunk tumble inside, and Hunk hastily flicks on the main lights. Good call—Shiro would be at a disadvantage against the werelions in the dark, and while Hunk’s night vision is decent, he hasn’t had any training in night combat. 

The auditorium is organized chaos. The seating area is largely clear, but the stage is covered in props, tools and stray lighting apparatus. Shiro vaguely recalls seeing advertisements for some theater production to be staged in two weeks by one of the campus clubs when hunting werelions earlier that day, and they’re probably in the thick of final preparations. 

Shiro has a feeling there may be setbacks, after a pair of werelions, a gorgon and an ex-Covenant cryptid hunter rampage through the place. But then, everyone must make sacrifices for the greater good sometimes. Shiro is prepared for those sacrifices to come in the form of broken props. Thankfully there are no ambitious theater kids pulling an all-nighter, and the auditorium is blessedly empty of other life. He’ll take the small win.

He’s already resetting a new silver-tipped crossbow bolt by feel—a skill he’d perfected at age seven—as he charges into the room, surveying for something, anything, he can use to turn this situation to his advantage. Unfortunately, options are limited. Even the clutter on the stage is more likely to trip him up than make proper cover. 

And then they’re out of time. With a furious snarl, Sendak smashes his way through the now-thoroughly-abused auditorium doors, hitting one so hard it crashes off its hinges. “I have had _enough,”_ he snarls, as he stomps his way towards them. “You only slow my victory down. Surrender, and I will kill you _quickly,_ which is more mercy than a Shirogane deserves.”

Shiro’s answer is another silver crossbow bolt, hastily fired on the run. Sendak dodges, but he’s forced to duck to do it, halting briefly and buying a few precious seconds more. The bolt _pings_ off the askew metal auditorium door and goes spinning off to the side, narrowly missing Haxus’ face as the second werelion ducks through the doors after his commander. 

Hunk looks around frantically. “Again—what do we _do?”_

Shiro grits his teeth for a moment. “Can you distract Haxus?” 

He’s not _thrilled_ with the idea of forcing Hunk to solo a werelion, even if it’s the weaker of the pair. Hunk’s a non-combatant civilian, and hasn’t exactly been in his element for the entire mission. This isn’t what he wanted and Shiro’s more than sorry he’d dragged the poor kid into it. 

But Sendak’s already too strong as it is without having a loyal officer to back him up. They’d pulled off that ambush seamlessly, without having to communicate. They have to divide and conquer, and Shiro’s definitely not pitting anyone but himself against Sendak. 

Hunk looks stunned at the prospect. “Do you want me to distract him by _dying?_ Because I’m pretty sure that’s what’s gonna happen!”

“Even stalling him will work,” Shiro says. “We just need to split them up. You don’t have to beat him.”

“Stall,” Hunk says, swallowing. “I can stall. Maybe. Okay, I’ll try.” A new thought seems to come to him. “But what about Sendak? He’s so big and he’s already hit you pretty hard—”

“Let me worry about Sendak. I’ve got range now.” To prove it, he raises his crossbow—he’s rearmed it again while talking—and fires directly at the werelion in question. Sendak dodges, but the quarrel still leaves a deep, smoking gouge in his side. “Hurry—draw him off, go!”

“Right!” Hunk scurries down one of the rows of chairs, like he’s making a break for the far set of auditorium doors. Haxus, apparently under the impression their quarry is trying to escape, snarls and thunders after Hunk, trying to keep up while staring at the ground and stumbling a little in his haste. Shiro can’t help but smirk—Hunk’s paralytic gaze had left an impression, and that should hopefully give Hunk an advantage.

Then he doesn’t have any more time or attention to spare on Hunk anymore, because with a roar of fury, Sendak charges down the aisle at him once more.

Shiro curses, but ducks into the rows of folding theater chairs. The little aisles are difficult to traverse even with the seats folded up; they’re not exactly meant for running down. He solves the problem by leaping onto the nearest chairback, and hopping from one to the other as he tries to put more distance between himself and Sendak. 

There’s an angry snarl from behind him, and a cracking metallic noise. Shiro feels the chairback he’s currently stepping on wobble violently, and leaps to a second, whipping around as he slides a new silver quarrel into place. He’s just in time to see Sendak ripping a full auditorium chair out of the brackets it’s bolted to on the ground with his uninjured right hand. The werelion hurls it in Shiro’s direction like a cannonball.

Shiro swears. He throws himself sideways in an awkward, twisting flip, and feels the breeze of the chair as it misses him by an inch. His boots find another set of chairbacks in two different rows. For a horrible moment he feels his footing slip, and has awful visions of crashing to the seats in a painful, defenseless sprawl. But a quick twist of his hips, a bent knee to absorb impact, shifting his center of gravity just _so,_ and he has his balance again.

Sendak looks genuinely surprised at both Shiro’s dodge and his recovery. Shiro takes the opportunity to fire another silver crossbow bolt at his face.

He hits, though once again the shot isn’t lethal as intended. It does hit Sendak’s left shoulder again, though, and between all the damage Shiro’s been racking up there, it’s clear his left arm is starting to become useless. It moves sluggishly, and it takes obvious painful effort for Sendak to use it at all. 

_It will take a while, but you’re not invincible, and I can wear you down,_ Shiro notes, with grim satisfaction. 

The question of the hour will be if his ammunition holds out long enough for him to do so. And, for that matter, if _he_ holds out long enough to do so. 

Sendak clearly realizes the same thing, because he bares his teeth at Shiro in a look of pure hatred, rips up another chair, and hurls it at Shiro as well.

Shiro dodges that one too, and the three others after it, leaping between the auditorium chairs and trying to keep enough distance from Sendak to make his crossbow a legitimate threat. He’s yet to land a fatal shot on the werelion, but more and more smoking silver quarrels begin to pepper Sendak’s arms, shoulders and legs as Shiro returns fire. And it is working—Sendak is slowing. Not dramatically, but he’s starting to lose blood, and because of the silver, the wounds aren’t healing. 

And Sendak is clearly at a frustrated loss for how to strike next. He could easily leap into the thick of the chairs, but he’s smart enough to know it would be a gamble. If he misses Shiro, he’ll be stuck in a tangle of mangled auditorium seats, and an easy, immobile target. 

He keeps trying to force Shiro out to more open ground, where his advantage is clearer. The moment Shiro sets foot in the main aisles, Sendak will be on him. But Shiro refuses to let him dictate the terms of the fight, and maintains enough spacial awareness that he’s not so easily driven out of his cover. 

The strategy might have worked indefinitely—except that with his sixth chair, Sendak gets lucky. Shiro tries to leap aside, but the haphazardly flung auditorium seat clips Shiro’s leg as he throws himself out of the way. The hard plastic and shattered metal would be painful enough thrown by a regular human, but with Sendak’s force, it’s like getting a boulder thrown at him. With a yelp, Shiro whirls off balance, collapses over several of the chair backs, and rolls painfully into the main aisle on the left side of the theater.

He barely rolls back to his feet, desperately trying to fit a new silver bolt to the crossbow, when Sendak is on him. The werelion leaps across the entire row of auditorium seats in the middle of the theater, smashes down directly in front of Shiro, and brings his right arm around in a devastating slashing uppercut. 

Shiro jerks back and tries to raise the crossbow defensively, but he’s not fast enough to dodge or deflect. Claws gouge his stomach and chest, dragging on heavy winter coat material, and the force is so strong he’s thrown up and backwards onto the auditorium stage. 

He screams as he hits the ground, gasping as new pain in his torso and leg mingles with older pain from his arm and side. The crossbow clacks somewhere on stage, and his polarized glasses slip from his face and shatter on the ground. He rolls, once, twice, and his back slams into a set-piece on the stage. His whole body protests, and he moans softly. 

The howls and the screams start gibbering in the back of his head once again, but training forces it back. _No. No. Not yet. Not_ yet. _I’m not done yet._

It takes grueling, excruciating effort, but he forces his eyes open.

His vision swims, blurry and indistinct at first, all dark shapes and glimmers of metal. It takes him a moment to realize he’s on his back, staring up at the pipes above the stage, strung with heavy stage lighting, set backdrops, special effects technology, and miles and miles of cables. Everything is turned off, at the moment, but the emergency backstage lighting still reflects off the metal casing of the tech strung high above him, heavy and straining at the thick weighted cables and metal pipes above. 

Right. On stage. His stomach throbs in pain, and wetness leaks out into his winter coat. Sendak had hit him. _Hard._ The coat had blunted the force of the claws somewhat, but it had still been enough to gash him open _and_ throw him at least ten feet. 

He’s not going to survive another hit like that.

Moaning again, he rolls onto his side, doing his best to ignore the agonizing spike of pain in his chest and stomach, and the slightly less strong throbs from his leg, arm and side. As he shifts his arm, something clacks on the stage, and he realizes after a bewildered moment he still has that last silver quarrel he’d been trying to load into his crossbow in his hand. 

It’s not much good without the crossbow, but at least it’s _something._

The stage _thuds_ in a way that sends every part of his body aching and the pipes above jangling like ominous, heavy wind chimes, and there’s a splintering crack of wood as Sendak leaps onto it. The werelion is bloodied, thick fur coating matted and disgusting, and he leaves red drops on the stage as he walks. His left arm more or less hangs at his side now, virtually useless. 

But he’s still moving, and Shiro isn’t. 

“You won’t be using that throwing trick on me again,” Sendak says coldly, as he paces forward, slower than before but no less deliberate, no less military. “Though you put up a decent fight,” he finally concedes, after a grudging moment. 

Shiro coughs, spitting up a mix of saliva and blood as he manages to force himself to his hands and knees. His limbs are wobbly, barely taking his weight, but he keeps going anyway. The quarrel is still clenched in his right hand, silver tip hidden by his fist. 

Sendak snorts at the pitiful attempt to fight back, and raises his right fist high. With a note of finality, he brings his enormous, clawed hand smashing down at Shiro’s unprotected back.

Shiro gathers what remains of his strength, and throws himself forward at the last minute, ramming the silver crossbow bolt into Sendak’s unprotected ankle. 

Sendak shrieks in pain. His arm whirls reflexively, and smashes most of the set piece behind Shiro instead, sending plywood chunks and nuts and bolts showering over him. The werelion kicks out reflexively next, and catches Shiro in the side, but it’s nowhere near Sendak’s level of force. Which means it sends Shiro rolling three feet to the right with a new set of bruises over his ribs, but doesn’t actually manage to break anything. 

He staggers to his feet immediately, swaying heavily, with one hand pressed to his stomach, and stumbles for stage left. 

“You’ve nowhere left to run!” Sendak snarls after him, voice still garbled with pain. 

Shiro is well aware. He’s barely got any fight in him left—Sendak’s only managed to hit him a few times, but each hit has been devastating. He’s willing to chance the silver bullets at this point, but Sendak’s proved too good at dodging even when Shiro could aim properly. Now with his body a complete mess...with his luck, he’d make just enough noise to attract the police to Sendak, just in time for the werelion to shred them, after he’s done crushing the life out of Shiro. 

But he doesn’t have any other options _._ Sendak’s too big, too strong, and too smart, and without any decent backup or a solid plan of attack, Shiro’s not strong enough to take him on his own. All he can do is delay the inevitable.

He limps off stage left to the backstage area proper, stumbling past the fly system as he does, squeezing through rows and rows of straining cables and heavy stacks of counterweights. The whole system shudders slightly as Sendak takes his first thundering step after Shiro, and once again from above comes the ominous chime of clacking theater lights and hefty stage pieces. 

And suddenly a smile—weak, but genuine—comes to Shiro’s face. He might not be strong enough to fight Sendak—so he’d just have to find something else stronger.

“Enough running,” Sendak snaps, coming ever closer.

“Fine, then,” Shiro gasps. It hurts to move, and it hurts even more to lift, with his torn stomach and wounded side. But he drags several weighted bricks out of the nearest counterweight stack, wrenches the safety lock off, and kicks the lever free.

An almighty screech resonates overhead as one of the heavily weighted pipes, laden with several hundred pounds of lighting equipment, comes crashing down. Without proper weights to counter it, the whole thing rockets stageward with alarming speed. 

Sendak looks up in confusion, and his remaining eye widens in alarm at the sight of the heavy equipment collapsing towards him. He tries to dodge away, but with his wounds and damaged ankle he’s not quite fast enough, and by then it’s too late. The whole rig comes crashing down on top of him, crushing him to the stage floor with a thundering smash and the sound of splintering wood and metal.

Shiro throws up his hands at the impact, shielding his face from flying bits of metal and wood. He barely keeps his feet as the whole stage shudders alarmingly beneath him. But before the dust even settles he’s moving again, wrenching more bricks free from the next pipe, and the next, kicking their own levers free and allowing the unbalanced rigs above to come thundering down in roaring fury. 

The racket is incredible, and once again, he can feel the stage heaving beneath him from the impacts as he throws up his hands to protect his face once more. When stillness finally settles in once again, he wearily lowers his hands and surveys his work.

Any human would have died in an accident like that, crushed beneath hundreds of pounds of stage equipment. Sendak, unbelievably, is still alive even after all of that, groaning softly and shifting weakly in the mess. But he is solidly pinned beneath the equipment to the stage floor, at least. Not even Sendak, for all the strength his hybrid werelion form gives him, can seem to shove the weight of the tangled, heavy pipes off of his back. 

Shiro’s not stupid enough to think this means a victory. Not yet. He wearily limps across the stage again, staying carefully out of range of Sendak and the equipment, briefly scanning the auditorium for signs of Haxus. They’re alone; Hunk must have taken his fight elsewhere. That’s a concern, but at least Shiro won’t be ambushed while he finishes this.

He spots his crossbow and the weapons bag, still with a few silver quarrels left, on the edge of the stage. He snatches both up quickly, keeping his eyes warily on Sendak once again as he examines the crossbow by feel, and re-arms it once he’s determined it’s still operable. He aims the silver-tipped quarrel at Sendak’s head, bleeding but still visible in the wreckage, and paces just close enough to ensure he’ll make a lethal shot.

Sendak watches him balefully with his one remaining eye. He strains at the rigs piled on top of him again, and then claws angrily at the stage with his massive right hand. But crushed flat on his stomach as he is, he can’t quite get the leverage for any kind of escape.

“You think _this_ is what real, honorable combat is?” he snarls after a moment, still glaring hatefully at Shiro.

“Dropping a theater production on you?” Shiro asks. “Maybe not, but you crossed the line past _honorable_ the moment you made the call to burn two hundred students in their sleep.”

“Their lives are worthless.”

“Their lives are _priceless,”_ Shiro corrects. And before Sendak can be allowed to rant further, he snaps, “What is Galra?”

Sendak says nothing.

“Who is your mistress?” Shiro tries next. “Is she one who demanded blood and had you testing lycanthropy- _l?”_

For the first time, Sendak answers, with a cold smile on his face. “She knows of you, Shirogane. All of Galra knows about you. She’ll kill you. You will be a dead man.”

“Most cryptids know the Shiroganes,” Shiro answers, keeping his voice indifferent, even if his thudding heart says otherwise. 

“Not your _family,_ Shirogane. _You._ House Altea’s pet monster hunter. A thorn in Galra’s side. You have already opposed us twice. You will _die._ ”

That sends a cold spike of fear through Shiro’s already throbbing gut, and it takes all his self control to keep himself from showing his panic on his face. He’s spent _years_ being as unknown as possible in this city by anyone but cryptid channels. He’s covered his tracks, he’s kept the Covenant from finding him, he’s used a dozen aliases and has a dozen more waiting just in case. Nobody can know about him. Nobody. Everything he’s worked for will be for nothing if he’s exposed.

He must not do as good a job as he’d thought, hiding his expression, or maybe Sendak can smell his panic. The werelion smiles, cold and malicious. “Did you think you could hide away forever? Did you really think you could earn yourself a little _redemption_ with this silly game? Did you think Galra wouldn’t _notice_ you, Shirogane? Everything you’ve done means nothing. She will beat you. You. Will. _Die._ ”

Even pinned, Sendak wounds deeply. To Shiro the words are like a stab to the heart, and can’t help but let out a shaky, rasping breath at the accusations. 

No hiding. No amends. No future.

And then Sendak is moving, snarling angrily as he shoves upwards with everything he has. Hundreds of pounds of metal creak and groan alarmingly as, against all odds, Sendak actually begins to free himself, just enough to lash out with a clawed hand at Shiro’s legs—

—and Shiro, with years of ingrained instinct, puts the silver crossbow bolt straight through Sendak’s remaining eye. 

Sendak makes a soft gurgling noise, and his whole body drops, hand thudding to the stage. The stage equipment groans in protest again as it thuds back on top of him, and creaks and clatters as it settles once more. 

Shiro’s not stupid enough to think that’s it. Killing cryptids is the one thing he knows _exceptionally_ well, and one of the all encompassing rules drilled into his head by the Covenant was _always be sure of your kill._ He puts three more silver-tipped crossbow bolts into Sendak’s skull with mindless, relentless efficiency, and waits a full minute, counting and listening for breaths, before he takes so much as one step into Sendak’s range.

But Sendak is dead—really, unequivocally dead. There’s no pulse, there’s no breath left, and his brain is full of silver. He’s not coming back. Never again. 

_Everything you’ve done means nothing. She will beat you. You. Will. Die._

Shiro shudders, swaying painfully on his feet. 

_No, no, no. Not now. You_ cannot _lose it now. There’s still another one out there and Hunk might need your help._

So as much as he _desperately_ wants to collapse onto the stage and drift into an exhausted rest, he doesn’t. He manages to keep a hold of his crossbow, fitted with the very last silver quarrel in his arsenal— _need to make more_ , he reminds himself idly—and limps his way to the stairs off the stage. He’d seen Hunk heading for one of the other sets of doors, and there’s a good chance the fight worked its way out into one of the halls.

It takes an excruciatingly long time to even get to the doors, and his leg protests vehemently as he moves. So does every other part of him—his chest, his stomach, his side, his arm. This is the worst beating he’s taken on a mission in a long while. Allura is going to be _very_ busy patching him up. 

He winces at the thought. He hates forcing her to use more of her power than is strictly necessary.

“Hunk?” he calls softly, at the doors. One is ripped off its hinges—Haxus had most certainly passed this way. “You good, buddy?”

There’s no answer at first, but there is a trail of destruction to follow. Tossed chairs and benches, holes in the walls, and more smashed-in doorways gradually lead the way to the cafeteria. It’s deathly quiet, and Shiro’s not sure if that’s a good sign. He keeps the crossbow at the ready, and scans the area carefully, but he keeps his eyes ready to drop to the ground at any moment. He’d lost his glasses, and if Hunk is fighting, he’s liable to be an accidental victim.

“Hunk?” he calls, at the entrance to what appears to be some sort of burger joint. 

“Shiro?” Hunk’s voice is shaky, but not panicked, and he doesn’t shout any warnings. Combined with the almost eerie quiet, Shiro has a feeling Haxus is no longer an issue anymore. Considering how gorgons take care of their enemies…

He immediately drops his eyes to study the carpet, and puts a hand up in front of his face for good measure. “I lost my glasses—you shielded?”

“I—um, yeah. It’s safe. You’re safe. It’s…” 

He trails off, and with safety confirmed, Shiro wearily limps his way into the food joint. Tables and chairs are upended everywhere, the condiments bar is on its side, and ketchup and mustard splatter the walls. In the middle of all of it stands an enormous, eight-foot statue of a werelion, expression twisted in a look of horror, with no less than six sets of fang marks embedded all up and down his left arm. 

Correction— _most_ of a statue. Gorgon venom tended to petrify victims from the inside out. The outer extremities are still somewhat fleshy and furry in certain areas, but the bones, the muscle, the blood—all of it would be stone. It was a terrible, excruciatingly painful way to go. 

Haxus had deserved every second of it.

Hunk swallows. Shiro spots him sitting wearily at one of the tables far from Haxus’ petrified body. He’s very still, and even his snakes slither gently around his face and neck, no longer agitated with the threat taken care of. “Y...you know how you said I didn’t have to beat him?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, gently, as he limps wearily over to his friend.

“Well...I kind of had to beat him.”

“You did a good job,” Shiro tells him, and it’s the honest truth. He doesn’t know many people that could take down any kind of lycanthrope, much less one with military training and some sort of cult loyalty. 

“Maybe. I’ve never had to kill any people before,” Hunk says meekly. “I don’t know if I like it much…”

“It’s not a bad thing if you don’t ever like it. But you did the right thing. He was helping Sendak burn your dorm. He would’ve put two hundred students to the torch...including you. Including Shay.” 

“I know. I know. It’s just…”

“It’s hard,” Shiro says, sympathetic. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Mostly.” Hunk displays a series of claw marks on one of his arms, which razors through his long-sleeved shirt and exposes fine scales on his skin. “He got me a few times, but I’ll live. Can’t...can’t say the same for him. He got too close to my hair, and…” He shrugs, displacing a few of the snakes in question. 

“Mm.” And _that_ is precisely why Shiro is careful to keep his distance around Hunk’s hair in general. He has no desire to become a partially petrified lawn ornament. 

He wearily looks around for a chair that isn’t broken, and spots one not too far from Hunk’s table. Bending to try and set it upright is excruciating though, and he can’t help but hiss in pain, pressing his hand to his stomach and accidentally dropping the crossbow. 

_Careless,_ he can practically hear his old mentors lecturing. _Dropping a weapon before the area is secure._

But Haxus was the last of them, as far as he can tell. And he’s _tired,_ damn it. 

“Shiro?” Hunk blinks in alarm behind his shielding glasses. “Oh, man. You’re bleeding. That’s...that’s _blood_ on the carpet. Shiro, holy crap, _stop_ for a second. Here, take my chair.” Hunk obligingly stands up and pulls his chair out, and Shiro, too tired to argue, obediently takes it once it’s safely out of snake range. 

“What _happened?”_ Hunk asks anxiously, once he recovers a second chair and sits across from Shiro. He’s hovering, anxiously fidgeting with his hands, and his snakes are starting to grow agitated from his stress again.

“Sendak happened. I just...just need a minute to sit,” Shiro promises, with a wince. “Can you get the crossbow? Shouldn’t leave it on the floor…”

Hunk retrieves the weapon and sets it on the table very carefully. “But you’re bleeding, really bad. I’m gonna call Allura. She can—”

“No. No, not yet.” Shiro winces, but plows on gamely. “There’s still too much I need to do first. The first responders will be distracted with the fire, but there’s only so much time until they discover the break in here. Everything needs to get cleaned up before then. And Keith and Lance are still out there—need to check on them—and on the progress with the Marmora Society hunt—”

“Okay, yeah, that’s all important, but so are _you,”_ Hunk says, wide-eyed. “Shiro, you look like you’re barely awake right now. I _really_ think we need to get Allura to send somebody to pick you up and get you some first aid. Please?” 

“I promise I’m okay,” Shiro says, wearily shoving himself to his feet. He’s had enough time to rest. “I’ve had worse before. Really. This is….this is all in a day’s work for Covenant agents…”

“If that’s true, then I think I might actually feel a little sorry for them, for the first time ever,” Hunk says. 

Shiro snorts at that. “You shouldn’t. Let’s check on the progress of the fire, and then—”

He loses track of what else he’s going to say, because the whole world swirls alarmingly. He takes a staggering step and tries to brace on the flimsy fast food table to catch himself, and ends up knocking it over instead. Both he and the table pitch over, and Shiro hits the carpet hard, gasping out loud as it violently jars his injuries. 

“Shiro! Oh, geez, this is what I was talking about—”

“I’m f...I’m fine,” Shiro stammers. Except he’s starting to think maybe he’s not, after all. The whole world is starting to get fuzzy, his head is spinning, and everything hurts. 

_Blood loss,_ he realizes distantly. _Great. Not now...too much to do...damn it…_

“Shiro? _Shiro?_ Oh, man. Oh man. I’m calling Allura, I don’t care what you say, just hold on, man—hang on, I’m getting help right now—”

His voice warbles in pitch and gradually fades away to silence, while he fades away to darkness. Shiro doesn’t fight it. The hard part of the job is done, so maybe he can rest, for just a minute.

For the first time since the whole mess started, the sounds of howling wolves and screams and the stench of blood and rot begin to fade, and everything is blessedly quiet.


	15. Gorgos stheno: Part Six

“Well, you know, I have it on pretty good authority that I’m not completely bad at my job. I mostly come home in one piece.”   
—Alex Price,  _ The Measure of a Monster _

**_An unknown location, which is not great, but at least it’s comfortable_ **

Shiro regains awareness slowly, distantly aware of soft murmuring and scritching all around him. 

His hazy mind can’t quite figure out what the noises are, and he’s vaguely aware that should frighten him. Waking in an unknown place, surrounded by unknown things, is a nightmare for any Covenant agent, and that extends to ex-Covenant agents in hiding as well. But something in his gut tells him he’s safe, and he decides to trust his instincts. 

He’s not in pain—mostly sore and uncomfortable, like he’d pulled a muscle or taken a hard fall. It’s bearable, and he’s tired, and has no inclination to move. He isn’t bothered and he’s not being tortured or interrogated, so nothing else matters at the moment. He lets himself drift lazily on partial awareness, dipping in and out of sleep.

He doesn’t have any concept of time, and he doesn’t know how long he drifts. But eventually, the hazy thoughts begin to recede, and his waking mind begins pushing its way back to the surface. The sounds around him are sharper now, more distinct. Tiny, skittering footsteps, and soft, muted voices, speaking in...prayer? 

Oh,  _ no.  _

Shiro cracks his eyes open, and blinks sleep out of his vision, gazing blearily around. Soft pastel colors eventually sharpen into a guest room of some sort, with a soft bed, a dresser, several comfortable overstuffed chairs, a desk, and a nightstand. 

Every square inch of surface besides the bed is covered with Aeslin mice. 

Almost in unison, the mice swivel to face him as he begins to move his head, standing attentively on their back legs with their front paws clasped in prayer, or clutching makeshift holy items. Each one leans forward with anticipation so strong the air all but crackles with energy, as they wait for a deep and meaningful message from one of their chosen high priests. 

“Ugh,” Shiro mutters, with absolutely none of the sage wisdom the mice are probably expecting. “What day is it?”

“HAIL!” The Aeslin mice chorus. “Sing praises! Hail! The High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of the Darkness has Awakened at last!”

Shiro groans, squeezing his eyes shut. The high pitched voices of the mice are like needles to his ears. Distantly, he wonders if this is what Keith feels like every time he’s around them. “Volume. Please.”

Several of the mice bow respectfully in apology, and they do a reasonable approximation of silence. With Aeslin mice, they’re never  _ truly  _ quiet. But at least they make the attempt, murmuring softly to each other instead of screeching praises. 

One of them, some sort of revered priest of Alfor’s order to judge by the red-dyed fur and ornate regalia made of candy wrappers, steps forward on the nearby nightstand and offers a deeper, more formal bow. “Our apologies, High Priest. We did not mean to cause discomfort.”

“Mm.”  _ Where  _ he is definitely isn’t in question; the Aeslin mice can only be found in Allura’s complex. But there are definitely other questions to ask. “Why are you all here?”

The priest stands up proudly, puffing out his little furred chest. For the first time, Shiro notices a string of tiny black beads looped around his neck, and several streaks of black in his red fur. “We are Keeping Vigil,” the mouse explains, “By order of the Lion Goddess. And she said, lo, ‘Keep an eye on him, and let me know when he Awakens or if anything Goes Wrong.’ And we have Waited, and we have Watched, as the Goddess Commands.”

“Ah.” So Allura had healed him and kept him here for observation—a much more literal task when one had Aeslin mice on their payroll. Even now, several of the mice scamper down off their perches and rush for the door, eager to give their deity the news of his waking. “How long has it been since the fight?”

“It has been a full day and a half by the human calendar, High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness,” the mouse answers dutifully. “In an hour, the Blood Hunters will come, and make their reports once again, as will the High Priest of Undying Loyalty. The rest wait alongside the Lion Goddess for news of our vigil.”

It takes Shiro a bit to translate the Aeslin speak—his mind is still a little foggy—and even when he does, there’s just as many questions as answers. “A whole day? No, no, there was too much cleanup left to do. I need to—”

He starts to shove himself up, ignoring the soreness and mild twinges of pain as he does. But the Aeslin mice start to chatter frantically as he moves, a steadily rising mess of “This is not the wish of the Lion Goddess!” and “The High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness must rest!” and other, nonsensical wails of concern. 

He groans, flopping back to the pillows and covering his ears with his hands. “Volume.  _ Please. _ ”

Thankfully, the mice quiet once he lays back down, and he’s able to flop his arms out to his sides. “I can’t stay here. I have things to do. You did your job for Allura, now please don’t complain when I try to get up again, okay?”

“They are Concerned for You,” the mouse priest says, very seriously. 

“Why?”

“Because they are your new congregation,” Allura says from the door, striding inside with a smile. She folds her wings neatly in the more enclosed space to avoid accidentally knocking any of the mice across the surfaces flying. One of the blue-dyed mice sits on her shoulder, the older-looking head priest of the religious sub-group devoted to Allura specifically.

Shiro isn’t surprised to see her in her own home, but he is surprised by her words. “New congregation?” 

The Aeslin were primarily devoted to Allura, and all her family members before her. While they recognized her close family friends as ‘high priests’ to honor their importance to her, it wasn’t nearly so extensive as their worship of her. 

There were a few mice who dutifully memorized the stories and words of Coran or Shiro or the others, and they always paid their respects to Allura’s friends, often as loudly and enthusiastically as possible. The day each of them officially became a ‘high priest’ is celebrated with feasting, singing, dancing, and enthusiastic prayer. But those outside the Altea bloodline didn’t have extensive catechisms of their own. Their presence and stories were considered to be part of Allura’s catechisms, since they were considered to have been granted ‘high priesthood’ by her.

“Of course.” Allura sweeps a hand around grandly at the small congregation of mice across the surfaces. “Didn’t you see the new color?”

Shiro blinks, and gazes around the room at the mice again, paying more attention to the little home-made trinkets and clothes they have. Several of them puff up proudly, eagerly displaying the items for Shiro to see. He’s genuinely surprised to find that although the majority of the mice present still have red-dyed fur and carry religious trinkets for the branch devoted to Allura’s father, Alfor, many of them now also have black streaks in their fur, or wear makeshift black clothing. 

“I don’t understand,” Shiro says, bewildered.

The priest mouse that had been explaining everything to him earlier steps forward eagerly. “The High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness achieved a heroic and noble victory against the powerful Mindless One,” he squeaks excitedly. “A victory that is equal in Magnificence and Holy Power to the victory of the God of Great Healing and Greater Science took against the Mindless Ones! Though you are not a God, of the line of Gods, you nevertheless have shown great Faith and Devotion. The spirit of the God of Great Healing and Greater Science lives on in your actions. HAIL!” 

“HAIL!” the mice around them cheer, leaping up and down in religious delight.

“My father’s faction was so impressed by your victory against Sendak, they have assembled a catechism specifically in honor of you,” Allura explains, more calmly, but with an amused smile on her face. “Many volunteers from my father’s priests have devoted themselves to you, and all agreed honoring you honors him as well. In effect, you are a High Priest of both myself  _ and  _ my father now, which has never happened before, and has thus elevated your status. You have a feast in your name, and the day of your victory is now a holiday by the Aeslin calendar. So is the day you chose to walk away from the Covenant to protect cryptids. Congratulations.” 

The mice take the congratulations to heart, continuing to cheer enthusiastically, “HAIL!” 

Shiro groans. “I think I’d prefer to go back to bed.”

Allura chuckles as she carefully strides around the bed to stand at Shiro’s side, talons clicking gently on the hardwood floor. “You’ll get used to it. Consider yourself lucky—for now, it’s only one feast, and two holidays. My family has had generations of mice and hundreds of different celebrations, feasts, festivals, holidays, days of mourning, and days of observance.”

“Thousands, Lion Goddess!” the Aeslin priest corrects, reverently but firmly. 

“Of course,” Allura says, placating. “Either way, you don’t have nearly as much to remember, even if having your own catechism means more will eventually be added. And this little fellow will remind you of anything important. He’s your high priest.” She gestures to the spokes-priest on the nightstand, who once again swells proudly. 

“He’s the high priest...to a high priest,” Shiro says, slowly. 

“It is So, High Priest!” the little mouse confirms. 

Shiro closes his eyes. “My head hurts.”

“A perfect transition,” Allura says. “I wanted to check on your healing status, anyway.” 

Without giving him a chance to argue, she reaches out and gently but firmly places her palm on Shiro’s forehead, closing her eyes as she concentrates. A little electric tingle seems to rush through his entire body as Allura’s wings begin to glow, and almost immediately some of the fogginess in his brain clears. The sore, pulled-muscle feelings in his chest, stomach, side, arm and leg all ease a little, and he doesn’t feel as tired as he did a moment before.

“You are healing very nicely,” Allura says, opening her eyes and smiling. “I was worried, at first, when you were brought in. But Kolivan’s medic team did an excellent triage job until I could heal the major injuries. I think you’ll be completely fine in a day or two.” 

The mice surrounding them give an enthusiastic, “HAIL! HAIL, THE HOLY BLESSING OF THE LION GODDESS! HAIL, THE RECOVERY OF THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS!” Thankfully, after Allura’s healing touch, the sound isn’t nearly so grating as it had been five minutes ago.

“Thank you,” Shiro tells her honestly. “I know it’s not easy to heal such big injuries. I really appreciate it.” Even as he speaks, he can’t help but notice one of the wilting feathers on her wings that finally flutters free and lands lightly on the bedspread. Three of the mice leap forward immediately to collect it with reverence, after an approving nod from their goddess.

“And what else would I have done?” Allura asks. “Left you to die, after you single-handedly removed the leader of the largest threat to face my city in some time? You saved hundreds of innocent lives while risking your own. I would do no less in return.” 

“Still. I might have done just as well in a hospital. I appreciate you getting me back on my feet much faster.” Being laid up with any kind of injury was always nerve wracking. It was impossible not to imagine the Covenant had found him and would burst through the doors when he couldn’t escape, or that disgruntled cryptids with a grudge against his family would decide to take action while he was at his weakest. 

Allura nods. 

“And…” Shiro swallows. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but...the lycanthropy?”

He had, after all, been in a no-holds-barred fight with a ruthless werelion. Sendak had never bitten him, but both of them had been so bloodied by the end that it was still entirely possible fluids had been transmitted to an open wound without him realizing it, in the thick of battle. The chances of such an exchange transmitting lycanthropy were small, but they grew greater with every new transmission, and it was impossible to keep track of it in a fight.

It’s the little priest— _ his  _ high priest, apparently—that answers. “The High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness contains No Sickness!” he proclaims, to the enthusiastic “HAILS!” of the congregation around the room.

“It’s true,” Allura agrees. “The mice tested you thoroughly, including all the ones with personal experience from the sewer searches. They all agreed nothing had been transmitted to you.”

Shiro breathes a deep sigh of relief, and immediately feels some of the tension and anxiety melt away from him. After everything that he’d been through, if  _ that  _ had happened on top of it all...well, he’d have tried to deal with it, as best as possible. But it wouldn’t have been easy.

But there’s no sense in thinking about ‘what ifs’ now. “Thank you,” he says, both to Allura and the little priest. “Really. That is...great news.”

“HAIL!”

“If you’re feeling up to it, I think you should be able to get up out of bed now,” Allura offers. “I asked the mice to watch over you until I was able to assess you when you woke, but I think you are doing fine. Provided you do  _ not  _ engage in heavy activity for a few days, and take it easy,” she finishes, with a warning look. 

He raises both hands placatingly. “I’ll do my best,” he promises. “But I’m going to want answers, and to at least know the status of the mission. There were too many things to take care of, and I didn’t have a chance to get it started.” 

He pauses. Sniffs. Winces. “Actually, I’ll take those answers  _ after  _ a shower.” He’s been going non-stop on this lycanthropy case for more than a day, run himself ragged, been in multiple fights, and been unconscious for at least a day while coated in blood, sweat and dust. He feels vile, and he smells terrible.

Allura chuckles knowingly. “Very well. The bathroom is down the hall—the Aeslin can show you to it. There should be spare clothing there already for you. When you are done, the rest of us have been entertaining ourselves in the sitting room, and Keith should wake in less than an hour or so to join us. You are free to join us as well, and ask whatever questions you like.” 

“Thanks.”

She departs, and Shiro levers himself out of bed, under the watchful eyes of several dozen black-and-red clad mice. He feels a little shaky, but more from having been asleep for a full day than from any actual weakness, and he can feel the strength coming back to him as he walks.

True to Allura’s words, the mice are eager to guide him to the bathroom, chanting “HAILS!” and “PRAISES!” the entire way, two doors down. It’s the longest two-door walk of Shiro’s life. They gather eagerly at the door of the bathroom and watch with delight, attentively waiting for any scrap of wisdom from their newfound religious leader.

“Let’s get something straight,” Shiro says, glancing down at the mice. “First order: I’m to be left alone in the bathroom. The shower is for me alone. Got it?”

“HAIL THE SHOWER!” the mice cheer, apparently not at all disappointed by his first holy order. As he closes the door on their little faces, he can already hear them excitedly chattering about the Holy Word, committing his request to timeless scripture.

Shiro sighs in exasperation as he turns on the hot water. Maybe it would have been worth letting Sendak kill him, if it got him out of... _ this.  _

* * *

One delightfully warm, long shower later, Shiro is dressed in one of the sets of spare clothes he’d left at Allura’s place for just such an occasion, when he’s stuck here recovering. 

Even better, to his delight, is discovering his new congregation of Aeslin mice had been busy outside the door while he’d been cleaning the blood and grit off. They had somehow located and produced his arsenal of weaponry from wherever it had been stored when he’d been brought in for healing, and had left everything in careful piles just to the left of the door. He gratefully stores away his throwing knives, sidearms, garrotte, police baton, and brass knuckles on his person, and stows the sword and crossbow away in the duffle bag the mice had also helpfully brought him. 

It feels good to be armed again—he felt more naked without his weapons than he did without clothes.  _ Never be unprepared for a fight in any situation  _ was the old Covenant adage, and Shiro had taken it up to eleven when he’d fled from them. Not all Covenant advice was sound, but that bit certainly was.

“Thank you,” he tells the mice honestly, as he slips away the last knife. “For finding these. I feel much better now.”

“HAIL!” the mice cheer, and his tiny high priest swells with pride at properly serving his religious leader.

Now clean and armed, Shiro makes his way down to the sitting room. To his relief, everyone he’d been worried about is there. Hunk occupies his own, comfortable overstuffed chair, and Allura has taken a second that is designed for her wings, with Coran standing attentively at her side. Lance is sprawled on the couch, next to an awake but sleepy-looking Keith nursing a mug of one of Hunk’s blood concoctions. To Shiro’s surprise, Rizavi and Kinkade are also there, chatting with the others. 

They all look up when they spot him, and everyone’s faces light up. “Shiro!” Hunk says, his tone a mix of delighted and relieved. “You’re okay! Oh man, I’m so glad. Allura said you’d be fine but it’s nice to see you not all passed out asleep. Are you hungry? Allura said you’d be hungry after all the healing, so I made food. Soup, since she said it should be light on your stomach. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Shiro admits. Now that he thinks about it, he’s ravenous. His last serious meal was breakfast at Sal’s Diner, and that was two days ago. 

Hunk dutifully fetches him a tray with a large bowl of soup, some bread, and a drink while Shiro settles down on the couch next to Keith and Lance. “Is everyone else okay?” he asks, glancing around at the rest of them. 

“I’m good,” Lance offers brightly. “A few minor burns and cuts from window glass. Allura healed me right up.” He shoots her a sappy smile, which she studiously ignores. 

“We’re fine too,” Rizavi offers, gesturing at herself and Kinkade. “We helped with the search efforts, but nothing got out of hand. So’re Griffin and Leifsdottir.” 

Keith merely grunts in answer. Based on the time, he’s probably still in the middle of his sun daze, and even less talkative than usual—the vampire equivalent to desperately needing his morning coffee. There are a few burns on his fingers and face, but they’re already light. A few more days of drinking human blood regularly and they’ll be all but gone. 

“My wounds weren’t too bad either,” Hunk says, as he settles the tray down on the coffee table in front of Shiro. He displays a bandage on one arm, and adds, “Should be good in a day or two, but Allura wanted to focus on your injuries first...you had us worried for a minute there, man.”

Shiro frowns, even as he starts in on the soup. “That bad, huh?”

“ _ Scary  _ bad,” Hunk confirms. “And I was all alone, so like, what was I gonna do? It was hard enough to try and do first aid while also keeping my hair from biting you, ‘cause  _ I  _ was freaking out, so  _ they  _ were freaking out. It was not fun. I called Allura for help, and thankfully one of Kolivan’s search teams was nearby underground, so they were able to pop up and come help. Ulaz had some medical experience, so he was able to at least patch you up enough that we could move you.” 

“Such Carnage,” Shiro’s newfound Aeslin high priest says, from the position he’d taken on the back of the couch. Most of his new congregation had scurried off to do whatever Aeslin mice did, but this one remained, attentive to his new religious devotion. “Such Destruction. The Mindless One had great power, power enough to nearly overcome the Faith of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness. The wounds upon the High Priest were Great and Terrible. Thus came the Hour of Fear and Darkness, when the High Priest’s strength and Faith were tested.”

Shiro sighs. “Let me guess. You were the Aeslin mouse assigned to Ulaz’ team to scent for lycanthropy- _ l.”  _

The mouse stands tall and proud. “I had such an honor. I gain this honor now, for I bore First Witness to the Trials of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness.” 

“Great.” Already, Shiro knows that’s going to be a story he hears over and over for the rest of his life, no matter how long it is. Aeslin lives are short—Aeslin oral history and culture is eternal. “Alright, so you got me here and Allura was able to heal me up. What about the mess in the auditorium?”

“The Marmora Society took care of that too,” Allura says. “They were able to remove the bodies of the werelions, clean up the blood, and destroy any evidence directly leading back to Sendak’s werelion fanatics, you, or Hunk. Not to mention themselves.”

“They were like, freaky good at it,” Hunk admits. “Like ninjas.”

“They have to be,” Keith says, speaking up for the first time. “The Marmora Society polices their own. Any vampire that crosses the line and threatens the Society or the cryptid community gets taken care of by them, and they smooth over all the damage after to keep from attracting unwanted attention.”

“They can’t have had time to clean up  _ everything,  _ though,” Shiro says, frowning. “The place was torn up. Doors off the hinges, ripped out auditorium chairs...I probably destroyed thousands of dollars of theater equipment and most of the set pieces for whatever production they were working on. They’d have had hours at best to handle it all.”

“That’s all still there,” Lance says. “I think the police are writing up as vandals, though. The same ones that started the fire. People are on high alert, but nobody’s looking for werelions.” 

“The show’s been cancelled, though,” Hunk adds. “Which sucks, because I was gonna go see it with Shay to support some other friends in it.” 

Shiro shrugs apologetically as he bites into the bread. It’s fresh, and still warm, not that he expects anything less of Hunk at this point.

“The Marmora Society also collected your weaponry,” Keith adds. “All the silver bolts you used, anyway. I found your knives outside when Lance and I looked for you after the fire. Lance dropped it off back home yesterday morning.”

That’s a relief. Although…”Dropped it off?”

“We’ve all been staying here for the day,” Lance admits. “Allura had plenty of guest rooms. We were worried about you. Plus…” he hesitates, glancing at Hunk. 

“The whole dorm burned,” Hunk says, a little miserably. “There’s nothing left. I didn’t have any place else to stay, so Allura’s putting me up for a day or two, until I figure something out. The school’s investigating and trying to figure out what to do with all the students who’d been living there, so until I hear back...”

“The  _ whole  _ thing?” Shiro says, alarmed. “Did everyone get out? Did Shay make it?”

“Shay’s fine,” Hunk says. “This pretty much shut down classes for a week or two, so she’s probably going home for a bit, but she’s fine. The rest…”

“There were mostly no casualties,” Keith says quietly. “We did what we could.”

“Alright,” Shiro says. “Fill me in on what happened after we split up.”

As it turned out, Keith and Lance had been very busy while Shiro and Hunk had been fighting for their lives against Sendak. Haxus had managed to disable all of the fire alarms in the entire building, and by the time they’d arrived, flames had already been licking up the edges of the exterior walls and the lower halls were already filled with smoke. 

Neither had been ready to let that beat them. Keith had gone inside the building itself, to sound the alarm and forcibly drag people from their beds if necessary. His superior vision and ability to hold his breath far longer than any human made the threat of smoke asphyxiation minimal, and didn’t slow him down any as he ran through the halls. 

Lance had taken a different route. Entering the building would have been far more dangerous for him, but he’d found another way to help. With his ability to stick to walls and ceilings, he’d assumed his quadrupedal form and dashed back and forth across the building’s exterior, wailing a terrifying high-pitched hunting scream and smashing every window he came across. Although chupacabra were never designed to hunt humans, primal instinct in their primate brains couldn’t let them simply ignore the hunting cry of a dangerous apex predator so close. Between that and the shattering glass, it was enough to wake even the deepest sleepers and the heaviest drunks. Most of them had enough sense to try and leave once they smelled the smoke and heard the alarmed shouts of other students. 

The two of them had kept it up until the fire department came, which finally forced Lance into hiding. Keith kept it up a little longer, but once the firemen had started entering the building, he’d been forced to retreat or risk exposure.

“It got a little toasty at the end,” Lance admits, but he’s grinning proudly to himself. “It’s a good thing I’m made of spikes or punching a ton of windows would have hurt a lot. And Keith got smoke inhalation anyway even though he doesn’t breathe,  _ somehow.”  _

“I breathe!” Keith snaps, glaring at Lance. “I just breathe  _ less  _ than the rest of you. And I didn’t see you in there hauling people out of beds!”

“People would start screaming if I went in there to haul them out of beds,” Lance says, glaring back. “And probably assume I was trying to eat them, as if any self-respecting chupacabra would drink  _ people,  _ eugh.” 

“It’s better than your gross  _ goat blood.”  _

“You take that back!”

“You guys sure are the saviors of the dorm,” Rizavi notes dryly, raising an eyebrow at the banter.

“Hail!” the few remaining Aeslin mice agree, cheering dramatically from their perches around the room. “Hail the bravery of the High Priest of Undying Loyalty and the High Priest of Unsuccessful Flirting!”

“What?” Lance’s head whips around, and he stares at the nearest mouse with a look of betrayal. “Aw, man! I hope they don’t go with that name…” 

Allura puts a hand to her mouth to hide her amused chuckle, and behind her, Coran openly grins at the experimental title. 

There were stories about the rescue, of course. Coran passes Shiro a tablet with several news articles on it, and he flicks through them with a studious eye. A few students claimed to have heard strange screaming noises, or seen shadows flicking past the windows, before they exploded. A few others had even more outrageous tales of a terrifying red-eyed demon that had smashed down their dormitory doors, dragged them thrashing out of their beds, and hauled them through the smoke and over flames to fire exits, or shoved them out broken windows. Those were largely being written up as hallucinations from stress and smoke inhalation, or explained away as the result of drinking or smoking a little too much. 

Shiro doesn’t think these stories will attract Covenant attention, either. The hallucinations story is thin enough for them to see right through, but he has a hard time believing the Covenant would accept the story of any cryptid  _ saving  _ people. 

“All told, there were nine casualties,” Coran says. “And about twenty students are in the hospital with serious injuries. Many others have minor injuries from the smoke or fire, but they should recover.” 

Nine deaths. Shiro’s heart sinks at that, and based on Keith’s and Lance’s uncomfortable looks, he knows they feel it too. They’d all done everything they could, and considering the circumstances, only nine deaths when there were supposed to be at least two hundred was shockingly good. But even so, Shiro wishes they’d been fast enough to prevent even that little loss of life. 

As if hearing his thoughts, Allura says softly, “It would have been worse, Shiro.  _ All  _ of you. It would have been so much worse if you hadn’t stepped in. I know it is difficult, but Hunk, if you hadn’t called Shiro that night, if that one student had not died and set things in motion...it would have been so much worse.” 

“We sure appreciate it,” Rizavi says, trying to lighten the mood. “You guys really helped us out a lot.”

Shiro sighs. “I’m glad there’s a silver lining there, at least.” He turns to eye the two werelions. “Where are Griffin and Leifsdottir, anyway?”

“At the Sanctuary,” Kinkade says. At Shiro’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “That is what most of our trainees are beginning to call that Atlas safehouse Allura gave us.”

“We came to update Allura on the stuff we still need, actually,” Rizavi says. “It’s got basic facilities, but if it’s a place to hide and teach lycanthropes how to stay in control and live normally, it still needs work. For starters, a safe place for people to deal with their first transformations, without destroying the place or escaping accidentally.”

“The Marmora Society has been assisting with medical procedures for now, as well,” Allura adds. “But Coran and I have already been researching to find doctors in the community that specialize in cryptid illnesses and diseases, and we’re starting to get a few hits. Hopefully we will be able to provide Sanctuary’s residents with a few on-call doctors that can help treat, and possibly cure, the lycanthropy- _ l  _ they need to deal with.”

“Griffin’s overseeing it all for now,” Rizavi says. “He sent us here to report in, but he wanted to stay behind to make sure everything’s on schedule and everyone’s comfortable. Most people from below listen to him. Even that scary vampire—Kolivan?—listens to his advice about werelions.” 

That was not an unimpressive feat. Kolivan did not trust easily, and even less outside his own species. But Shiro’s not really surprised by the news. Griffin had a good head on his shoulders, and if he could get a decent chain of command and a good care plan set up, the werelions would probably be in safe hands. The fact that he’s already dedicated himself to the task says a lot about how far he could go with this.

“He would like to try opening it up to other lycanthropes, as well,” Kinkade adds. “Once we have better structure and safety methods set up for ourselves. If there is a place to go…” 

Then there would definitely be less potential destruction, and less people trying to deal with a frightening transformation on their own. “It’s a good idea,” Shiro agrees. “I’ll help however I can. Did you find everyone down below?”

“Near as we can figure,” Rizavi says. “Probably close to sixty people, all told. Leifsdottir thinks that’s all of them, based on all her crazy calculations and estimates. I don’t know how she keeps track of it all in her head. Math majors, am I right?”

Hunk chuckles at that. “Hah! For real.”

Sixty werelions. Shiro can’t help the icy cold feeling that rolls down his spine into his stomach at the thought. Prorok had at  _ least  _ sixty werelions in the process of being trained, all with the express purpose of wreaking havoc. Sendak had said their mistress’ purpose was blood. He and Haxus had clearly been disdainful of Prorok’s methods, but if he’d been able to complete his project...it would have been a massacre on a grand scale. 

And even with that project halted, the threat isn’t over. “There may be others on the streets, still,” Shiro warns. “We don’t know if others were bitten and didn’t realize what happened, like the victim that started all of this.” He frowns. “Which reminds me...did we find her, specifically?”

Rizavi and Kinkade exchange glances. “Yeah,” Rizavi says, after a moment. “She’s at the Sanctuary too. Real shook up over it, she sort of remembers killing the guy. Before that she was the kind of person that would never hurt anybody—heck, apparently she used to be vegetarian.” 

“We will help her adjust,” Kinkade says quietly. “That was her first time changing. It’s...hard, at first. She definitely needs to stay in Sanctuary for now. But with time, maybe…”

Shiro shakes his head, but more out of frustration than disagreement. It’s cruel and unfair, but there’s not much else they can do. The girl hadn’t asked for this, and clearly hadn’t intended to harm anyone, but Sendak’s cronies had made her sick and it had devastating consequences. With time, maybe she’ll be able to come to terms with them—both the physical, and the emotional. 

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you,” Shiro says, deeply apologetic. “Or the girl. Or any of you.” 

He wants so badly to be able to fix all of this, for their own well being, and for his. He’d spent so long believing lycanthropes really  _ were  _ monsters, violent and uncontrollable. He had terrifying memories of the horrific things they could do, things that haunt his nightmares. To learn he’d been wrong is a stab to the heart, and to learn he’d relentlessly judged people who had been victims, not monsters, even years after his escape from the Covenant, is another. To have finally learned the difference, and to realize it’s not something so easily fixed by an attitude change and a willingness to do better, is almost a slap in the face. 

But both werelions look genuinely surprised, and Rizavi says, “Are you kidding? Last week I was living in a sewer. I was convinced I was a bloodthirsty monster who could never go home, and that people would kill me on sight. I had to work for that asshole Prorok because we didn’t have other options. Now I’ve got a decent apartment, people who want to help us, and a whole new life goal for how to help other people. Might even be able to go back to school one day, or see my family again. Considering I’ve got this creepy lion virus, I think this is a best-case scenario.”

“Agreed,” Kinkade says, succinct and to the point as always.

Shiro offers them a weak smile. “If you say so. I admire your optimism.”

“You should,” Rizavi says. “And while we’re at it, you should also stop by the Sanctuary at some point. When you’re feeling up to it. I know Griffin still wants to thank you too, plus maybe you’ll have some ideas on how to help.”

“I’ll put it on my calendar,” Shiro agrees.

“Great! So that’s pretty much a win, right?” Lance asks brightly. “I mean, Shiro kicked Sendak’s ass, we got rid of all the other bad werelions as far as you guys know, we’ve got a whole rescue set up for new lycanthropes, and we  _ totally  _ saved the day. All we need now is a parade!”

“It’s not about the glory, Lance,” Keith says, frowning at him. 

“Nobody even knows we saved the day anyway,” Hunk adds. “Other than the Sanctuary guys and the Marmoran guys and Shay, anyway.”

“I know, I know,” Lance grumbles. “You guys take the fun out of all our cool superhero work.”

“We’re not superheroes—”

“Please, we’re  _ totally  _ the cryptid Justice League. Shiro’s our Batman cause he’s a boring human but still badass. Don’t tell me you don’t see it.” 

“That’s not what it’s about!”

Shiro passively absorbs the banter between his friends, frowning over Lance’s words. It’s not really a victory, not yet. There’s still months of testing and research to do, keeping an eye on mammal populations until the lycanthropy- _ l  _ is confirmed gone. Until that’s taken care of, Shiro won’t truly sleep well at night, knowing there’s still a chance for a lycanthropy outbreak that  _ isn’t  _ controlled by Sanctuary.

And beyond even that, there’s the bigger threat. Galra. 

_ Not your family, Shirogane. You. House Altea’s pet monster hunter. A thorn in Galra’s side. You have already opposed us twice. You will die. _

Shiro shivers. No, there’s definitely still a threat. This isn’t over. Not yet.

But the team desperately needs a victory. The past two days have been hard for all of them, in so many ways. The  _ immediate  _ threat is over. He’ll let them take the win, and discuss the matters more in-depth with Allura later.

So for now, he finishes off the last of his soup, and tunes back in to the now heated debate regarding superhero identities. “So I’m the Batman, huh? Does that mean I get those cool gadgets? ‘Cause, not gonna lie, I could really use one of those grappling hooks.” 

* * *

The next few days are a whirl of activity. Despite the technical victory, there’s still so much clean-up work to do to wrap up this whole unexpected mission, much of it tedious and routine. 

People only ever notice the hunting part of a monster hunting job. The post-kill work is never, ever appreciated, more’s the pity. 

Allura gives him the all clear to leave after waking in her penthouse, and Shiro is relieved to be able to go home and rest in his own bed. He’s also relieved because it means he’ll be parted from his congregation, which, after only a few hours, he already needs a break from.

“But we are your Devoted!” the high priest mouse protests, when Shiro is about to leave.

“I don’t have room for a splinter colony in my apartment,” Shiro counters, entirely reasonably. “I also don’t want to lose my deposit with you making new holes and tunnel systems in the walls I don’t own.” 

Allura’s penthouse is full of hidden chambers and tunnels in the walls, where the full congregation of Aeslin mice lived, worked and worshipped on a regular basis. She didn’t mind, but then, she’d lived with them for her whole life, and more importantly, she owned the whole building. He’s fairly certain his landlord won’t understand, or accept the argument of ‘but they’re my congregation and worship me’ as an excuse. Hell, if his landlord encountered talking mice, he’d probably torch the whole building.

The mice aren’t entirely convinced by this, so Shiro adds, “I also cannot guarantee the protection of the congregation. You know what hunts me and what my job entails. You also know where I came from. If they ever find me, they will not hesitate to kill you all because you’re different. It’s for your own protection that you can’t live with me.” 

It’s not entirely untrue, although his defenses aren’t as weak as he’s making it sound. It’s enough that the mice seem to buy into it, though. They grudgingly agree to remain in Allura’s penthouse with the main colony, as long as he tells them stories of his deeds when he does visit and work permits. 

When he leaves, he can already hear the high priest preaching to the rest of the sub-faction about how ‘The High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness shields his flock from the Unbelievers, and that he hunts and treads where the Faithful cannot.’ It’s far edgier than he’d like, but considering the circumstances, he’ll take it. 

At least his apartment is blessedly silent. Mostly. 

He checks in on his studio on the way home. He’d missed lessons, with this most recent mess, and being unconscious for a whole day. Thankfully, Keith had thought to put up a sign indicating that Shiro was out sick for the human patrons, and that lessons would be delayed. The  _ other  _ lessons, in the cryptid community, were less of an issue. The community already knew about the lycanthropy outbreak, and had been smart enough to keep their heads down. 

So he gets one night of rest, at least. And despite having slept for a full day, he finds that by the time he gets home, he’s exhausted all over. Allura’s healing is highly effective, but it does drain one’s energy, and Shiro’s never been so glad to see his own bed. 

But by the next morning, he’s back at work. Keith is out cold in his sun coma in his room, and Lance has already left for the day to meet up with Hunk and Shay to survey the damage on the campus. So Shiro heads right back to Allura’s penthouse, while he’s unlikely to have eavesdroppers or cause an undue panic.

Coran meets him at the elevator, mildly surprised. “Shiro! Wasn’t expecting to see you back so quickly.”

“I wouldn’t have imposed again so soon if it wasn’t important,” Shiro promises. “But we have more things to discuss.” To the mice already coming out of the woodwork to greet him enthusiastically, he adds, “I’m invoking Witness for Food,” and hands over a box of donut holes as payment. 

“Serious things, I see,” Coran notes, expression growing hard. “I’ll get Allura and meet you in the study.”

It takes a little while to get everyone—himself, Allura, Coran, and what now amounts to  _ five  _ Witness mice, with the new sub-faction—arranged in the study. Coran insists on making tea and bringing in breakfast pastries to sample from while they talk, and Shiro’s growling stomach agrees. He’d been in such a rush at the Dunkin’s to get the payment for the mice he hadn’t bothered with himself. 

But once everyone is settled, he begins. “This thing with the lycanthropes—it’s not really over.”

Allura frowns, sweeping her wings back regally as she watches him sharply over her cup of tea. “Oh? And what makes you say that?”

“The origin of the lycanthropes is the real problem,” Shiro says. “Sendak wasn’t an independent threat—he was a symptom of a much larger one. Galra.”

Allura’s frown grows deeper. “Galra. The same Galra behind the Macidus attacks, several months ago?”

“As far as I can tell.” Shiro leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced together as he talks. “Macidus talked of a mistress that he served, who had been enhancing his powers and rewarded him for killing as many people as possible. Sendak mentioned a mistress too, who assigned them the task of creating as much blood as possible. Based on the things they said, and what we saw in the sewers, it sounds like she was testing the effectiveness of lycanthropy- _ l  _ as well.” 

Coran scowls at that. “Then someone else is calling the shots, and organizing some depraved experimentation on top of it. There’s a chain of command, and a mistress telling them what to do.”

“A mistress who has her eyes on  _ my  _ city,” Allura says angrily, as she raises herself in her seat a little higher. “That’s twice now that the order has involved carnage, and senseless killing, not to mention experimenting with cryptid abilities and uses. What is the purpose? To bring the Covenant down on our heads? To create new cryptid races and factions?”

“I don’t think so.” Shiro stares at the carpet. “Both Sendak and Macidus were pretty tight-lipped about sharing information, even if they both thought they would kill me.” That implied training, which implied organization and planning, both things Shiro does  _ not  _ like to think of in conjunction with mass murder. 

Allura’s eyes narrow. “I have looked for information since the Macidus incident, but I still have never heard of this Galra, or this mistress,” she says. She turns her eyes to the witness mice, all five perched delicately on the nearby table. “Is there anything in our family history that matches?”

The green-dyed mouse steps forward, bows reverently, and says, “No, Lion Goddess. The Aeslin have no knowledge of this ‘Galra,’ or any God they might serve.” 

“They’re clever, whoever they are,” Coran says. “This is our second encounter with them. Both attacks were fairly well thought out and both caused a great deal of damage, not to mention more than a few casualties. And if they were experimenting with cryptid abilities, we have no way to know if they got the results they wanted, or if they plan to take it further.” 

“And we still don’t know anything about them,” Shiro concludes. 

“I will reach out to my contacts, both in the city and outside of it,” Allura says. “If there is any knowledge of this ‘Galra,’ I will know of it. They threatened my  _ city,”  _ she growls, outraged, as if it’s a personal offense. 

And it might very well be, Shiro realizes. “There’s...one more thing.”

There must be something in the tone of his voice that reveals the direness of the situation, because Allura sets her teacup aside. She settles her hands in her lap, attentive and waiting. Coran also stops bustling about with the tea set, and even the mice lean forward in anticipation.

Shiro sighs. “Sendak knew me. He was targeting me directly.”

“That is not unusual, in this city,” Allura says. “You have been working hard to build a reputation amongst the community as a safe Shirogane. Certainly he must have heard rumors.” 

“No, this was different,” Shiro says. “He didn’t know me by my family reputation, or even as just a ‘safe Shirogane.’ He called me House Altea’s pet monster hunter. He said this mistress, whoever she is, is specifically aware of  _ me  _ intruding on their plans twice, and that it means I’m a target to them.” 

Allura frowns. “It is not... _ unknown  _ that you protect this city now, either,” she says slowly. “Or that you have done so at my request.” 

“No, but it’s getting a lot closer to the truth,” Shiro says. “Most people just assume you have some kind of dirt on me, or hire the nasty monster killer to kill the things you think need killing, like some kind of cryptid assassin. Sendak...he was too close to the truth. He  _ knew  _ things, things he shouldn’t have.”

_ Did you think you could hide away forever? Did you really think you could earn yourself a little redemption with this silly game? _

Shiro shudders. 

“This is bigger than just being irritated because I’ve intervened,” Shiro finishes. “They know that I, specifically, am a threat to their operation. They know  _ why  _ I do what I do, and what motivates me to stop them. And since they called me your pet monster hunter, they know  _ you’re  _ a threat, too.” 

“Then Allura could be in danger,” Coran summarizes, eyes widening. “She could be a target. And we don’t even know where to look for this Galra!”

Allura squares her shoulders and sweeps her wings back regally once more, chin held high. “It makes no difference,” she says, determined. “They will not frighten me. I will not run. This is  _ my  _ city. The House of Altea has protected it and its community for generations, and I will always be a threat to anyone who dares to harm it. I will  _ not  _ relinquish that duty now.”

Despite their vow of silence for the duration of the meeting, the witness Aeslin burst into a frenzy of enthusiastic cheers. “HAIL! HAIL THE LION GODDESS! HAIL THE COVENANT OF THE CITY! HAIL!” 

Shiro shakes his head, weary. He can’t really explain the way Sendak’s words to him and dug so deeply. The man had gotten under his skin so easily. Allura’s words make a logical kind of sense, but he still can’t help but feel like he’s being watched. Like this _Galra_ has him under surveillance, and know his darkest secrets and his deepest desires. 

“I don’t expect you to run,” he says. “I never did. But I do suggest you be  _ careful.  _ Please. Galra has struck twice. They want this city for something. Whatever they’re trying to do, you’re in the way of it. You’re an obvious target. Watch yourself.”

Allura nods graciously. “I accept your warning. And if you still wish to give it, despite all that has happened—your aid.”

Shiro sits back in his chair again, eyes narrowed and jaw set. “Of course you have it, Allura. If there’s one thing the House of Altea and the Covenant of St George have in common, it’s that none of us ever run when we should.” 

* * *

The next day is dedicated to visiting Sanctuary. 

It’s an apartment complex built in one of the middle-income sections of the city, with more cryptid neighbors than most. The area is relatively safe, with lower crime rates and access to a plethora of modern amenities and shops, as well as an easy access point to the cryptid underground. It would have been perfect for Allura’s original intention of creating a safe housing district for cryptid families that was affordable and accessible to non-humans, with a landlord that would understand the need for roof access, protection from sunlight, or a need for extreme privacy. 

Now, it serves as a lycanthrope haven. 

Griffin meets him outside, along with Leifsdottir, Kinkade and Rizavi, and the four eagerly give him the grand tour. “It still needs a lot of work,” Griffin says, “But Allura’s got a lot of contractors that are cryptid friendly—or just cryptids—on payroll. We’re figuring it all out.”

One of the modifications is extreme soundproofing, reinforced walls, and a lockdown procedure—a necessity given the potential violent tendency of lycanthropes undergoing their early transformations. First transformations are confusing, painful, and frightening, and even mild mannered lycanthropes are capable of extreme levels of damage and a great deal of noise. While the neighbors are predominantly cryptids, not  _ all  _ of them are. Even the cryptids might take issue with excessive amounts of screaming, roaring, and breaking things on a regular basis. 

Beyond that, the facility is planned to have a medical wing on the first floor. It will be for both study and research of the lycanthropy virus, as well as for an alternative resource for even standard medical evaluations. Blood tests drawn at a local clinic or hospital would inevitably turn up results that would cause problems, but the new lycanthropes still need  _ someplace  _ to go when they catch the flu or break a leg. Allura already has contractors set aside to build the facility, and several more doctors interested in the position, Griffin notes proudly.

The complex is otherwise like any other sort of apartment building in the middle of the city. The lycanthropes who have displayed some degree of control over their transformations have all claimed apartments in the building, and most of them have already taken to setting up their newfound homes as they see fit. The ones who haven’t quite mastered their disease and are still potentially at risk for causing harm are kept in secure, but comfortable temporary apartments in the basement level, and are worked with consistently every day by more experienced lycanthropes until they gain full control. 

The first floor has a functioning gym, a small pool, and an indoor greenhouse. Allura had spared no expense when designing the place for a variety of different cryptids originally. All in all, it seems like a fairly nice place to live, and the best the lycanthropes could hope for given the circumstances. 

“Allura’s even covering the expenses,” Rizavi says brightly. “Electricity, water—she’s not even charging us rent.”

“You’re paying enough by letting the doctors study you,” Shiro says. “I know that won’t be easy, but trust me—you’re doing a huge service to the entire cryptid community. If there’s a way to combat lycanthropy, everyone would benefit.” 

He might even be tempted to anonymously send a tip back to the Covenant, in the event of a cure. It would save lives on all sides. He thinks back to the infestation in France—to the dead victims, and to the two Covenant agents who had taken their own lives over becoming monsters—and quietly closes his eyes for a moment. 

Yes—that would be one piece of information that would  _ definitely  _ be worth breaking radio silence for.

“It will benefit us in the end, too,” Leifsdottir says. “That is hardly a payment.” 

“I just wish there was a better way to give back to the community,” Rizavi admits. “I guess we’ll figure something out eventually. Maybe we can help Allura with other stuff, once we get a handle on all of this.” Kinkade nods in agreement.

Shiro finishes up the tour with them, impressed with the building. Allura had been kind, giving this to them, but then this was who Allura  _ was.  _ A beacon for the community, always protecting them, always doing everything she could to help them. It was no wonder so many in the community thought of her as royalty. 

He does point out a few different weak points for them to target with their renovations. That was what they had asked him for. He suggests plans for every problem and a contingency for every plan; an escapee on the streets, a new lycanthrope discovered who needs help, a way to keep humans or other cryptids from wandering in accidentally. They take all his suggestions to heart, especially Griffin, who types it all up on a tablet to bring to Allura’s attention later. 

But it’s when he’s leaving that the most important conversation happens. Leifsdottir, Kinkade and Rizavi say their goodbyes and head back inside to get back to work with their preparations and training, but Griffin hesitates. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” Shiro agrees, curious. 

Griffin runs a hand through his hair, and finally sighs. “Look, I’m kind of new to all of this. This is...a lot to take in, and apparently I’m in charge of it all, somehow.”

Shiro chuckles. “I’ve been there. For what it’s worth, you’re doing just fine. You’re a born leader, and those three have your back. Everyone else here really trusts you. You’ll be great.”

Griffin smiles tiredly at that. “Coming from you, that means a lot.” His expression grows serious. “Look. You didn’t let us down. You kept your promise, you treated us with respect, and you made sure  _ all  _ of us got help. No man left behind. None of us ever figured we’d ever have an opportunity like this, and it’s all because of you.” 

“Not just me,” Shiro says. “I hope you know you can rely on Allura and the others, too. Maybe not all of the community will be so kind. Lycanthropy has a...a stigma to it. But we’re all here for you.”

“I know. I’ve seen all of you in action, I know you’re trustworthy.” Griffin meets Shiro’s eyes. “But  _ you’re  _ the one who first reached out to us. You offered a hand instead of filling our skulls full of silver. So thanks.” 

Shiro internally winces. He really doesn’t deserve such a heartfelt thanks. Until that encounter, he’d been absolutely ready to do  _ exactly  _ what Griffin is thanking him for avoiding. 

But he’d tried, at least. He’d tried to be better. That had to count for something in the end. “You’re welcome.”

Griffin nods, but he doesn’t seem done yet. He regards Shiro carefully for a moment, before he speaks up again. “Prorok’s idea...with a werelion army. It was bad, obviously. All of us have to pay for his stupid plans. And nobody’s happy with the idea that he just wanted us to hurt people indiscriminately. None of us were okay with that and we’d never do that.”

“I know,” Shiro says, a little perplexed as to where this is coming from. “We’d have done things a little differently if all of you were out for blood.”

“Yeah, well…” Griffin shrugs. “I did some asking around. Talking to the contractors and things. Learning more about this cryptid community. It’s kind of funny...everyone I asked talks about Shiroganes like they’re the monsters under the bed.”

Shiro frowns, now  _ very  _ curious where this is going. He crosses his arms almost without thinking. “My family has...done a lot of terrible things that I’m not proud of.”

“I wouldn’t know it, talking to just you. You seem pretty okay to me. You’re the first person who offered to help us, and you always stood up for us.” Griffin shrugs. “I guess what I’m getting at is...if  _ you  _ ever need a werelion army...give us a call. We’re there to help. I don’t think anyone would argue.”

Shiro’s heart freezes for just a moment. “I...that is a very dangerous power to offer me. I don’t know if that’s wise.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Griffin says. “You get that. So I’d trust you with that kind of power. I think you’d use it the right way, if the city ever needed us.” He shrugs. “So, y’know. If something really bad is going on, and you need some extra soldiers...we’re here. We’re ready to pay it back to the community, and to you.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shiro says. “But I hope I never have to make that call.”

But against Galra...maybe, one day, he might have to.

“Me, neither,” Griffin admits. “But I wanted to be sure you knew.” He glances back at the Sanctuary. “Anyway. I gotta get back to work. We’re helping some of the newer werelions this afternoon and I need to figure out how to train them.” 

“You’ll do fine, Griffin,” Shiro promises, and he really does mean that.

“Thanks.” 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Shiro tells him. “The offer goes both ways. If you guys ever need help with anything—give me a call.”

“Will do,” Griffin says, before tossing him a little salute, and heading back indoors. 

* * *

For a few days after that, things quiet. At least for a little while. 

Which isn’t to say they’re completely uneventful...but at least it doesn’t involve throwing himself into mortal combat. Shiro keeps touch with Allura regularly, and Keith with Kolivan. Both leaders have established lycanthropy watch networks, and information pours in daily. They’re beginning to be able to map the extent of the damage Prorok had caused with reported sightings of ‘rabid’ animals or half transformed corpses, and they’re slowly starting to get a handle on just how much work is left for them.

It’s not ideal, and as long as any creature with lycanthropy is out there, there’s still a danger of outbreak. But it’s a start, and between the network and the Sanctuary, Shiro feels like they’re at least starting to get their arms around the problem.

But there’s still fallout in other ways. And the next biggest issue comes to light a week after the climactic battle with Sendak. Hunk arrives at Shiro’s apartment in an anxious frenzy, an exasperated Lance in tow, pacing and rambling so much Shiro actually starts to get dizzy. 

“I’ve been trying to calm him down all morning,” Lance says, giving Shiro a tired look. “Please work your magic and fix things.” 

Shiro can only raise an eyebrow at that.

“They sent out emails to everyone in my dorm on next steps,” Hunk explains, when Shiro finally manages to talk him down from his anxious maelstrom enough to actually communicate. “ _ Look.”  _ He hands over his phone, which Shiro takes dutifully. He thumbs through the official email quickly and immediately sees the problem.

The university’s response was fairly reasonable. They were not cancelling classes, but would be awarding partial refunds to students who had lived in the afflicted dorm and had opted to halt the semester early in light of the tragedy. It would not affect grades or overall placement in the university, and students’ places were still guaranteed for the next semester. 

If students wanted to stay and continue on, professors had been asked to give leniency and extensions, and the school had contracted with a few local hotels to provide housing for the remainder of the year. Students would be paired with new roommates if their old ones were no longer available. But due to space constraints, all students would be housed in a double room with another person.

That was reasonable for humans. It was less reasonable for cryptids, especially ones like gorgons, who had a few notable living constraints others didn’t. 

“Okay,” Shiro says. “That’s unfortunate. I’m guessing you want to stay, and not take the refund and try again next semester?”

“Of course I do!” Hunk says. “Besides, the whole dorm won’t be rebuilt in time for the next semester anyway. They’ll probably be contracting with the hotels until they’ve got housing options again, and they  _ definitely  _ won’t be offering single rooms. I can’t wait forever, I’m kind of on a time limit here!”

That was true. Hunk only had a few more years before he was tall enough that people would  _ definitely  _ take notice. 

“I don’t want to leave, anyway,” Hunk admits, softer now, but no less anxious. “I like it here. I like you guys, you’re my friends. I like my classes. I like this city. I don’t  _ want  _ to have to turn tail and leave over this.”

“Aww,” Lance says, grinning a little. “I knew you liked us.”

“What do your parents think?” Shiro asks, putting the conversation back on track. “Your community?”

“I haven’t told them yet,” Hunk admits. “I’m afraid they’ll tell me to just come back home and try a new university. But I  _ like  _ Garrison U. And it’s not  _ their  _ fault the place burned down, nobody expects rampaging cultist werelions.” 

“Worse than the Spanish Inquisition,” Lance agrees.

Shiro shoots Lance an exasperated look. “Alright. So to keep going to school here, you’d need someplace else feasible to stay.”

“Yeah, but I’m a broke college kid,” Hunk says. “I can’t afford an apartment here, even with the partial refund everyone gets on housing, and even with help from back home. City living is expensive!”

“What about Allura?” Shiro says. “You’ve been staying at her penthouse, haven’t you?”

“Yeeees,” Hunk says. “And she’s offered to give me a room there, and that’s super nice of her, but I also kind of don’t want to. It’s kind of creepy with all the security there...and my hair gets hungry every time the Aeslin mice are around, which is like,  _ all the time _ . It’s manageable for little visits, but I’m kind of afraid somebody will get eaten at some point. My hair can’t tell the difference between super smart mice and normal ones.” 

That was, admittedly, a very fair point. Aeslin mice were intelligent, and knew better than to get too close. But all it would take was one accident, and Hunk would be forever immortalized in Aeslin doctrine as a killer of the priesthood, which probably would not go over well in the long run. 

“I mean, the answer seems pretty obvious to  _ me,”  _ Lance says. “You can just stay with us! Right, Shiro?”

Shiro gives him a bewildered look. 

“I mean, Hunk already stays over here all the time  _ anyway  _ for game nights,” Lance continues, oblivious to Shiro’s stare. “And he can’t have a ton of stuff to bring with him anymore since, y’know, it all burned. We all know he’s a gorgon and we’re cool with that. So why not?”

It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to say it’s just not feasible. There’s not enough  _ room.  _ His apartment already feels too small with a human, a vampire and a chupacabra in residence; he’d never purchased it years ago with the intention of anyone but himself living there. Adding a gorgon to the mix could actually be dangerous. If there was one thing any creature with venomous hair with a life of its own needed, it was appropriate amounts of space.

But Hunk gives him such a wide-eyed, hopeful look that Shiro can already feel his normally iron will cracking.

He sighs. “Sure. Why not. I’ve been meaning to get a bigger place, anyway.”

Hunk actually beams at him.

* * *

Allura has been a helpful resource in many different research projects, but Shiro had never quite expected to get her help on apartment listings. 

Her aid proves invaluable, though, in the long run. Allura has contacts all over the city, and is instrumental in helping him find good-sized apartments with reasonable defensibility that won’t put cryptids or humans at risk in the event of a Covenant attack. Shiro ultimately finds a multi-bedroomed apartment for a decently affordable price, close enough to Garrison U for Hunk to commute, and within a reasonably safe area. Not that he’s particularly  _ concerned  _ about muggings for himself, a vampire, a chupacabra, and a gorgon, but it’s convenient to not have to defend oneself on a daily basis from ordinary human thugs. 

“You could have just stayed here, you know,” Allura says, as she helps Shiro with the final paperwork on the apartment. “I have more than enough levels to spare for all of you.”

“It’s safer if all our eggs aren’t in one basket,” Shiro counters. If the Covenant or Galra ever  _ did  _ attack, it would be imperative that both Allura and Shiro weren’t under the same roof. Having a man on the outside for a rescue or a counterattack was essential. 

Besides—despite years of working with Allura, Shiro still hasn’t quite earned the trust of her extensive security staff. It’s irritating enough on visits, to put up with their glares. He can’t imagine the thought of dealing with it multiple times a day.

And, maybe, he also would like to avoid his personal Aeslin congregation as much as possible, and living in-house makes that extremely  _ im _ possible.

The new apartment is nice, though. Shiro takes a week to get it all set up like his old one, with sun-filtering glass and darks for Keith’s protection, and sturdy blinds for everyone else’s privacy. Everyone gets their own room—particularly essential for Hunk—and there’s even a spare left over for him to store his weapons, reagents, and research materials in. He finally doesn’t have to worry about accidentally poisoning any of the cryptids that live with him when they wander through the dining room and touch something by accident. 

The team settles in reasonably well, and if Shiro’s honest, having Hunk as a full-time roommate really doesn’t take that much adjusting to. Lance had been right; they were so used to Hunk spending the night for late night movie and game sessions that it’s not a huge step for him to be there permanently. He gets along with both Keith and Lance very well, and is usually able to break up any spats between the two with minimal fuss. There’s always good food in the refrigerator and the cabinets, and Hunk has taken it upon himself to be in charge of the kitchen and the grocery shopping, in repayment for being given a place to stay. He’s a good roommate. 

There are some minor adjustments, of course. Hunk is extremely careful about always putting on protective contact lenses or glasses before ever leaving his room, and everyone else is equally careful about wearing their own eye protection before knocking on the door to fetch him. Shiro makes it a priority to always have pliny's gorgon antivenin in the first aid kit, and be sure everyone knows how to use it. It becomes almost second nature to give Hunk just enough space for his hair to be comfortable, although Shiro notes with interest that the longer he lives with them, the more relaxed the snakes get around all of them. He has a tendency to snoop through other peoples’ things or ask nosy questions, but that’s hardly anything new, and Shiro takes to locking anything private, personal or dangerous up if he doesn’t want Hunk to get into it.

Most importantly, never in a thousand years would Shiro  _ ever  _ have expected to have such a feeling of family again. If he’d been told, the day he left the Covenant, that he’d one day have a large home filled with happiness and safety and friendship, he’d have laughed in their faces. But it seems like for all the disasters he’s encountered since leaving his old home, his family somehow keeps growing, and his life gets warmer, and his decisions feel more and more  _ right.  _

It’s not a feeling he’d trade for anything in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends Hunk's arc. Next up, another new friend :)


	16. Vestiarium sapiens: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my American readers, Happy Thanksgiving! To my non-American readers, have a great day! To everyone, enjoy!

“Running and screaming comes later, after we don’t die. It would be a little self-indulgent right now.”   
—Antimony Price,  _ Magic for Nothing  _

**_In the park at midnight, not having a great time_ **

“Hot dog stand!” Lance yelps. “ _ Duck!”  _

Shiro hurls himself aside, narrowly avoiding the little food vendor cart as it whistles past his left ear. He hits the grass, rolls to his feet, and searches for his quarry.

_ “No!”  _ the creature in question shrieks.  _ “No, no, no, no! No monsters! I just want my mommy!”  _

Ghosts are not an uncommon spectacle in the cryptid world, and of all the non-human supernatural occurrences, they’re probably the ones humans are most willing to accept as real. Dealing with ghosts is par for the course for any kind of hunter. Shiro had known how to exorcise things since he was three. 

This one is proving problematic, though. Mostly because it’s the ghost of a six year old, deep in the throes of a temper tantrum. 

The accident happened two months ago. It had been tragic—a six car pileup at a local intersection that had resulted in the deaths of four people and major injuries for five others. Among the victims were a mother and her six year old son, who had been T-boned by a truck rushing a red light. The coroner’s report concluded they had both died instantly. It had been considered a tiny blessing that they hadn’t suffered.

Shiro had investigated the accident, of course. He made it a point to check most accidents, fires, murders, and scenes of other unexpected deaths, partly to look into foul play, and partly in case anyone involved... _ lingered.  _ Sudden, violent deaths were the most common reasons for spirits to stick around, and humans seemed to do so more than any other species. Half the time, they didn’t understand they were dead, but the loneliness and frustration and confusion usually led to destruction and chaos if it was allowed to go on too long. 

He hadn’t turned up anything at the scene of the accident. It looked like the spirits had all moved on, and hadn’t needed his intervention. But when he’d heard about strange things beginning to happen at the park just a block away from the crash site, he’d had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d missed something.

_ “I want my mommy!”  _ the ghost of six-year-old Noah shrieks again. He glimmers faintly in the dark, pale and barely visible in the park’s street lamps. Shiro can feel more than see the dark aura surrounding him, angry and violent in the purest, unfiltered way only a child could truly pull off. 

“See-saw!” Hunk shrieks, and everyone dives for cover as the playground equipment rips free of the ground and hurtles in their direction. Bright, colorful plastic flashes past overhead and slams into a tree hard enough to make it crack.

“How is he doing that?” Keith hisses. Of all of them, he’s having the easiest time dodging, with his superior night vision and heightened agility. That doesn’t seem to help him get any closer to the kid, though.

“Poltergeist,” Shiro answers. “They usually haunt houses. This one picked a playground instead, I guess. Not the weirdest haunting I’ve seen, sadly.”

“I am really, really scared to hear what you think a  _ weird  _ haunting would be,” Hunk moans, as he tries to find cover behind a tree, his hair writhing and hissing in agitation.

The poltergeist in question stomps his feet in frustration, beats his little fists at the air, and howls with pure, exhausted, frightened, child-like fury. Keith’s eyes widen, and he careens into Lance and Shiro, knocking them aside just as a shovel goes whizzing by overhead. 

“Better question,” Lance yips, voice high-pitched with shocked fear. “Where is he  _ getting  _ all this stuff?”

“Groundskeeping shed,” Keith says. “He ripped it through the wall.”

“He almost decapitated me!” Lance says. “Shiro, when you asked for my help ‘cause I’m good with kids, I didn’t expect  _ decapitating ghost six year olds!”  _

“Me too!” Hunk hollers, from behind his tree. “The same goes for me! Scary kids are not cool!”

“This really surprises you two?” Shiro asks, rolling to his feet and circling, looking for a good way to get close. “When would you ever expect a job of mine to be normal?”

“I figured, like, your self defense job. You teach kids self defense!”

“At midnight?” Keith asks, giving Lance an incredulous look.

“Shut up,  _ Keith.”  _

Keith rolls his eyes, but a witty retort is abandoned as he throws himself aside in time to dodge a rake and a pair of pruning shears. Near the swingset, the ghost of Noah calls again,  _ “Where’s MOMMY? She’s supposed to come GET me!”  _

“Your mother’s dead!” Keith calls back. “And so are you! She’s not gonna come to you, you have to go to her!”

Shiro inwardly groans. 

There’s a frightening, silent pause, and then Noah screams.  _ “No! No! You’re a bad monster! I want my MOMMY!”  _ The ground rumbles alarmingly, cracking beneath their feet, and several of the park trees along the landscaped path creak and groan warningly.  _ “She’ll come GET me! She SAID! She said she’d GET me!”  _

“Real smooth, Keith!” Lance snaps, bolting for cover. “Have you  _ ever  _ talked to a kid before?”

“I hated it when people tried to sugar coat  _ my  _ parents being gone!” Keith hisses, glaring. “I thought that would work!”

For someone like Keith, who has always preferred blunt, straightforward talk, it might have. For a traumatized ghost child that’s already confused enough, it definitely doesn’t. 

“Hunk, can you stun him?” Lance asks, narrowly missing being impaled by the spikes of a decorative metal fence post.

“I can’t stun  _ dead  _ things!” Hunk yelps. “They don’t have a nervous system  _ to  _ stun!”

Shiro swears under his breath. He’s not quite close enough to use his usual toolkit, and the kid is screaming so hard no exorcism phrases he could speak would even be heard. 

More than that, he really doesn’t want to have to go the hard route with this kid. Six year old Noah is currently an almost literal unholy terror, but it’s hardly  _ his  _ fault. He didn’t ask to die in an accident, and he certainly doesn’t understand what was happening to him. Most adult ghosts couldn’t even do that. 

“Noah!” he calls instead. “Noah, buddy—I need you to try and calm down, okay?”

The ghost doesn’t stop flinging things. But he does seem suitably distracted enough by someone knowing his name that the ground stops shuddering ominously.  _ “You’re not my mommy or daddy,”  _ he observes after a moment.

“I know, buddy,” Shiro says. He keeps his arms out, hands spread wide, as unthreatening as possible. Aware that he also towers over the poor kid with sheer height, he also keeps his distance. “I know. I’m sorry about that. But I’m here to help you.”

The ghost child eyes him suspiciously.  _ “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,”  _ he says after a moment, wary.  _ “Mommy says strangers could take me away.”  _

“That’s true,” Shiro agrees. “That’s very smart. That’s good of you to remember.”

The child seems mollified enough with the praise that the haphazard items scattered about begin to float, instead of hurling themselves with alarming speed at peoples’ heads. The dark aura diminishes, just a tad. 

_ “You’re a stranger,”  _ the ghost says after a moment.  _ “I don’t know you. Go away. I want my mommy.”  _

“I’ll stay right over here,” Shiro promises. “I won’t come near you at all, okay? I just want to help. Are you lost, Noah?”

The ghost stares at him for a moment.  _ “No,”  _ he says.  _ “I’m at the playground.”  _

Okay. Well. He’d sort of deserved that one.

“That was a dumb question,” Shiro says. “Okay. Did you get separated from your mom?”

Noah sniffs.  _ “She’s supposed to come GET ME. That’s what she said! She said if I couldn’t find her, go to the swings, and she’d come GET ME!”  _ The ground rumbles alarmingly again, and several of the floating items shoot off into the dark, causing surprised yelps from his companions. 

“Woah. Sssh, Noah. It’s okay, buddy. We’ll figure this out.” Shiro waves his hands gently and pitches his voice low and soothing. It seems to help, since the dark aura around the ghost recedes once again.

_ “I want my mommy,”  _ little Noah says after a moment. He can’t actually cry, as a ghost. But he doesn’t understand he’s dead, and his see-through body does a shocking impersonation of crying.  _ “I’m scared. I wanna go home. I want MOMMY.” _

It’s depressingly clear what’s happened here, by now. His parents must have had a rule for him if he got separated on family outings, and gave him a designated place to go when he’d gotten lost. He’d followed the rule perfectly. He just hadn’t understood he was dead, and his family couldn’t search for him anymore. The mother’s ghost had been long gone—she’d probably already passed on, expecting her child to be there, and couldn’t return for him anymore. The father wouldn’t even know to look for him.

“I can help you find your mom, Noah,” Shiro says. “I know where she is, okay? If you let me help you, you can go see her.”

The child sniffles again, but regards him with wary hope.  _ “You can?”  _

“I can,” Shiro confirms. “But to hear her, you’re going to have to calm down and stop hurting people. Okay?” 

The ghost seems to consider this, but stares over at Shiro’s friends after a moment. Keith has been stealthily slinking closer in the dark with a small pouch of purifying salts, and Lance, now in his chupacabra form, is also belly-crawling closer on his stomach. The ghost’s eyes flash, but more with fear than anger as he whimpers,  _ “I don’t LIKE them. They scare me. Go away, monsters!”  _

Lance makes an animal howling noise as the same shovel from earlier narrowly misses clipping off one of his spines, and he awkwardly leaps sideways. Keith, red eyes flashing in the gloom, dodges the hot dog stand again and hisses in frustration, showing gleaming fangs. 

“Okay, everyone, back off!” Shiro yells to his friends, as the young ghost jumps back in fright that rapidly shifts to a swirling storm of emotional fury. He knows Keith and Lance are more or less harmless—at least to a six year old—but the child certainly doesn’t. And he has to admit, a spiked lizard-dog larger than he is and a red-eyed, fanged creature looming out of the darkness would probably scare the hell out of him, in Noah’s position. He’d fight back too. 

“But Takashi—” Keith protests.

“Now,” Shiro answers, in a tone that brooks no argument. They grumble, but they retreat.

The ghost regards him with confusion  _ “You made the monsters go away?”  _

Shiro’s not going to press the point about ‘monsters’ verses ‘cryptids’ with a six year old. “Yes.”

_ “Are you a police?”  _ the child asks next.  _ “Mommy said I can talk to police people.”  _

“Sort of,” Shiro says. “For...monsters.” The word itches on his tongue, but he spits it out anyway.

_ “I don’t like monsters,”  _ the child says.  _ “There was one in my closet. They’re mean. I want my mommy. I’m scared.”  _

“Okay,” Shiro says. “Okay, buddy, I know. There’s not gonna be any more monsters here. I’m gonna help you. Can I come sit next to you on the swings?”

The child finally nods, and the floating objects swirling around him gradually lower to the ground as the dark aura of loneliness, fear and confusion starts to diminish. He settles onto one of the swings, and Shiro, walking over slowly and carefully, sits down on the one next to him. They’re made for children, and he’s far too big for them, with his knees stuck up too high and his back awkwardly hunched. Noah seems to appreciate it anyway.

He’s in prime position to act, if he really needs to. But he’s starting to get this little ghost to trust him, and if he’s lucky, maybe he can do this in a less traumatizing way.

“Okay,” he says. “So, your mom was supposed to pick you up here?”

_ “Yes,”  _ the ghost says.  _ “But it’s been a real long time and I’m scared. Nobody wants to play with me. I don’t like the dark. I want my night light. I want my teddy. I want my mommy.”  _

“That sounds really scary,” Shiro says. Because he’s been through and seen things that would make adult men and women wet themselves, but for a six year old nothing can be more terrifying than being out in the park alone at night, with no one to comfort him. 

The ghost nods. Shiro can feel the swirl of uninhibited child emotions near him, so pure and unrefined and  _ strong,  _ but this time they don’t manifest in a violent way. The poor thing is scared, lonely, and lost. He wants to go home.

Shiro uses that to help him.

“Okay,” Shiro says. “I want you to do something for me, okay? I want you to close your eyes, and think about the last time you saw your mom.”

_ “If I close my eyes the monsters will come back,”  _ the child says, whimpering softly.

“I promise, I will not let any monsters get you,” Shiro says. It’s a promise most parents have probably made to their kids at some point, but Shiro could quite literally fight them off if it actually came to it. 

The ghost considers this. He must believe Shiro the monster-police-officer on some level, because he closes his eyes. 

“Do you remember what you did with your mom last?”

_ “I did Kindergarten,”  _ the child recalls, eyes squeezed shut.  _ “It was the last day, but mommy said I could have Justin and Sarah come over to play for summer. She said I did good at school and we got ice cream and she said I could have mac and cheese and applesauce for dinner.”  _

That alone is painful to listen to. The kid had a whole life ahead of him, and now he didn’t, because some asshole just had to beat the red light. And worst of all, he’s far too young to understand the injustice of it, to know he  _ should  _ have had more time.

“And then?” Shiro asks.

_ “And then…”  _ the little ghost frowns.  _ “It’s loud. I don’t like it. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”  _ The wood shavings around their feet start to hover, floating just a few inches off the ground, surrounding them like circling asteroids. Everything gets colder.

“Shhh,” Shiro says. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. Can you think about your mom? You got ice cream?”

_ “I got a cone,”  _ the child says proudly. The wood shavings trickle back to earth, settling once more.  _ “Chocolate. With rainbow sprinkles! For doing good at school. Mommy said so.” _

“Can you remember her voice?”

_ “Yes. It’s my MOMMY,”  _ the child says, as if Shiro had asked an especially stupid question. 

“Alright. Think about her voice. And I want you to do something important—can you listen for her? Listen  _ really  _ hard. I bet she’s calling your name, from really far away. Like if she was on the other side of the playground and telling you it’s time to go home.”

The ghost’s brows squeeze down in concentration. There’s silence for a long moment. But then Noah’s eyes pop open excitedly.  _ “I hear her! I hear mommy!”  _ His face falls immediately, when he sees no sign of his mother on the playground itself, and he gives Shiro a deeply confused, hurt look.

“You need to keep your eyes closed,” Shiro says. “And listen really hard, and then think really hard about going home. Okay? You can do that. You’re a smart kid, after all—you finished Kindergarten.” 

The little ghost swallows, but the nods, and squeezes his eyes shut again.  _ “Mommy,”  _ he murmurs, voice soft. There’s silence, but Shiro watches intently, waiting. Noah smiles suddenly, a bright, enthusiastic smile of delight, and squeals,  _ “MOMMY! You came, you came, you came!”  _ And he leaps off the swing, throwing his arms out to hug someone.

One moment he’s there. The next he isn’t. There’s a stillness that falls over the whole playground, like a ripple in a pond that finally exhausts itself. 

Shiro sighs wearily in relief, and stretches his cramped legs out in front of him.

“Is it over?” Keith calls from across the park. He’d probably been eavesdropping on the whole thing, with his superior hearing, and had only grudgingly kept out of sight because Shiro had ordered him to.

“Yeah,” Shiro calls back, after a moment. “I think he’s finally passed on.”  _ Good luck, Noah,  _ he thinks, very quietly.

It doesn’t take long for the three of them to reach him, stepping cautiously over the discarded remains of Noah’s impromptu ammunition. “Where did he  _ go?”  _ Hunk asks, bewildered, looking around anxiously.

“To his mother,” Shiro says. “I just taught him how to hear her.”

“Hear her? What, no ‘go towards the light’?” Lance asks, skeptical. 

“Adult ghosts understand that reference and might perceive it that way,” Shiro says, with a shrug. “A six year old certainly wouldn’t. He wanted his mom—I just had to put it in those terms.” 

“So did we drag this stuff in for nothing?” Keith asks, lifting the pouch of purifying salts with an irritated look on his face.

“Not exactly. We’ll purify the area just to be safe. A poltergeist’s been sitting here for a couple months—who knows what kind of screwed up energy that might leave behind, or what might invite in.” In this profession, it always paid to be careful. Paranoid, even.

“First thing’s first, though,” Shiro adds, glancing up at the three of them. They give him curious looks, and he says sheepishly, “Help me up. This swing seat is  _ way  _ too small and short. I’m pretty sure I’m stuck.” 

Lance grins. “The terrifying son of the Shirogane clan,” he chortles, gesturing at Shiro with a flourish, as Keith offers him a hand.

* * *

Shiro is reasonably sure they won’t see any further problems from Noah the poltergeist again. But ‘reasonably sure’ is not ‘one hundred percent confident,’ so for the next week or so he monitors the park, just to be sure. He’d already missed one thing on this case. He’s not about to miss something else. 

Garrison’s famous Arusian Park isn’t as large as Central Park in New York, but as far as tourism goes it’s a solid contender. For a city park, it’s quite large and beautifully landscaped. There are a number of attractions, from the Green Lion Gardens, the intricately carved Balmera Terrace, and on the shores of Nalquod Lake, the miniature Rygnirath Castle, which visitors could tour through. A relaxing walking trail leads through trees and gardens, visitors can rent horse and carriage or bike tours, and dotted everywhere are famous sculptures and fountains and monuments. Street performers often set up shop in the highly trafficked areas, and there are special seasonal events throughout the entire year.

Unbeknownst to most human visitors, much of it had been designed for cryptids. A great deal of the park had either been funded by or designed by Allura’s family over the course of generations, and they continued to support it. For cryptids who needed nature, open spaces, or access to a reasonably large body of water, it was absolutely essential. 

That was also why so much of the decor—the gardens, the sculptures, the intricate designs in the buildings—was lion themed. The Altea family crest and animal was a lion—it was even, presumably, where Allura had earned her goddess name from the Aeslin mice. The city had seen fit to honor the House of Altea for their continued charitable contributions to the park by dedicating a significant amount of the decor to them.

It’s a nice park, though. Shiro visits it often throughout the year, to keep an eye on things and make sure any cryptids living there or using the facilities are safe, as well as behaving. It’s busy year-round with tourists and locals alike, and generally a pleasant place to escape the claustrophobic feel of city life, at least for a little while.

A week after the incident with Noah, Shiro loiters around the more activity-themed section of Arusian Park. The large playground that had been the site of the battle is in the area, and not too far away is a small baseball field and a set of basketball and tennis courts. It’s July, and hot as hell, but that doesn’t stop local games from playing or kids from clambering all over the jungle gym and swings. 

By now, the city has repaired most of the damage Noah had done to the playground area, which had been written up as vandals. The see-saw that had been torn up has been replaced, and the other projectiles put away. The hot dog vendor had replaced his cart and was doing stellar business at the baseball game. It’s as though there had never been a ghost at all.

Nor does anything seem unsafe on the supernatural end. Shiro’s been keeping a sharp eye out for any unusual circumstances or strange sightings, but as far as he can tell the playground is just a playground once again. After a week, if something spiritual was going to move in, it would have done it already. Anything left of Noah’s terrifying aura will have weakened with every sunrise. 

It’s probably safe to call this mission done, then. After today, he’ll halt his surveillance of this particular area and go back to his usual rounds.

He’s sort of enjoying watching the baseball game though. The Bluve Badgers are facing off against the Olkari Owls in the city’s league, but the score is neck and neck. They’ve attracted a fair few viewers to the metal bleachers around the stand, and more are starting to crowd in. 

Shiro’s just considering leaving his shady tree, buying a hot dog from the vendor—as a sort-of apology for wrecking his first cart—and finding a space to watch the game, when someone skids to a halt in front of him. “Finally!” the person says. “I’ve been looking  _ everywhere  _ for you!” 

He doesn’t recognize the voice, and is immediately on high alert, his hand already going for the police baton hidden under his T-shirt. It will cause a scene, but survival is the most important, and the knives or guns will cause more of a panic. 

But he freezes when he gets a good solid look at his attacker’s face. It’s a little obscured in a bright green sweatshirt, with the hood drawn up. But he  _ can  _ make out the grayish pallor of a bogeyman, short, messy brown hair, and golden-brown eyes behind a pair of round glasses.

He  _ remembers  _ that face, from years ago now, when the world as he understood it had been a very different place. He remembers those eyes, watching him with wide-eyed terror as he’d paced closer, blood dripping from his face and arms, sword in hand. 

He remembers this person from the day he’d first learned that  _ everything  _ he’d ever been taught was wrong.

“You,” Shiro breathes, eyes wide with shock. He aborts his grab for the police baton, and for the first time in years he’s completely frozen, unsure what to do next.

The bogeyman blinks, and his own eyes seem to light up in realization. “You  _ have  _ seen him!” he says, face splitting into a grin with teeth that are slightly too sharp to be natural on a human. “I knew it!”

Shiro frowns. That voice—now that he thinks about it, it’s not quite what he remembers from before. He surveys the bogeyman again and realizes after a belated moment that he isn’t quite the same as the last one. In fact, now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure  _ he  _ is actually a  _ she,  _ although it’s hard to tell at first with the baggy T-shirt and short, messy hair. Younger, too—maybe a few years younger than Lance and Hunk, if he had to guess. The other bogeyman he thought might have been around his own age.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says politely, after a moment. “I’ve mistaken you for someone else. I thought—”

“—that I was my brother,” the bogeyman says. “I look a lot like him, not a hard mistake to make. And you’ve  _ seen  _ him. I can’t believe I finally found you!”

Now that his initial confusion is past, that starts to set off alarm bells in Shiro’s head. That, and a few other things. 

This might not be the bogeyman he’d been thinking of, but she’s still a  _ bogeyman.  _ Bogeymen are naturally stronger than humans, but they’re extremely sensitive to sunlight. It’s not to the same extent as vampires, but more than a few hours out in the daylight can start to cause them extreme pain. 

It’s early afternoon in July. Any bogeyman wandering around outside in this weather isn’t doing so for the fun of it, not when they physically stand out amongst humans  _ and  _ it injures them.

Not only that, but it sounds like this bogeyman had been searching for him. Somehow, she had tracked him down. Shiro’s not comfortable with the implications of that, especially since this is clearly somehow related to her brother. 

Her brother, who had been in the vicinity of a Covenant hunt years ago. Her brother, who  _ no one  _ knew had ever met Shiro, because Shiro had never told a soul the full details, not even Keith, Lance, Hunk, or Allura. 

“Who are you?” he asks, wary. 

“Pidge Gunderson,” she answers promptly. Shiro’s worked with aliases enough to immediately know one when he hears it, but he doesn’t press—not yet, anyway. He has bigger concerns.

“And do you know who I am, Pidge?” 

“A Shirogane,” she answers, completely unfazed. “But the nice one. Not the crazy ones that hunt people down for sport.”

Even after all these years, Shiro can’t help but wince a little internally at that description. His family has done terrible things, yes, but they’d never hunted cryptids for  _ sport.  _ They’d done it to protect. They’d been mistaken, for sure, but it had never been  _ entertainment,  _ it had been a duty.

He doesn’t fight the point now, though. 

“And how did you find me?”

She can clearly hear the caution in his voice, because she says, “Not through normal means. I mean, I’m a pretty good hacker, but you covered your trail  _ really  _ well.”

“That doesn’t reassure me,” Shiro says bluntly. “Not when you know an awful lot about who I am already, and I don’t know anything about you.”

“I had a lot of help. An...outside source, you might say.”

“The Covenant can use any source you can,” Shiro says. “If you can find me, I need to know how so I can make sure nobody else does.” Not when this is already so close to very dangerous waters. 

It’s an odd experience, watching a bogeyman go pale, but Shiro witnesses it now. She shuffles uncomfortably, hands hidden in the kangaroo pouch of her hoodie, and stares at the ground awkwardly. “Yeah, I...I don’t think they’d use this source. Call it a hunch.” She swallows.

Shiro has a  _ bad  _ feeling about that reaction. Bogeymen don’t unsettle easy. This kid is in over her head, and he knows it already, even without knowing the details.

“Look,” Pidge says, finally lifting her head to look him in the eyes again. “I  _ really  _ need your help with something else, and that’s one of the reasons I wanted to find you. But before that, I have a way more urgent issue I need help with.” 

Her eyes widen as she glances over his shoulder, and she hisses, “Like,  _ right now.”  _ With remarkable speed, she reaches out with one of her too-long, multi-jointed hands to grab his wrist and tug him behind the nearby hot dog cart. 

Normally, Shiro would  _ immediately  _ fight back, with the assistance of weapons if necessary. Even on friendlier terms with the local cryptid population, letting a strange cryptid drag you off is exceedingly dangerous. 

That was especially true with bogeymen in particular. They had very strong grips, and their penchant for enjoying the sound of screams and expressions of fear meant they had a tendency towards mean-spirited actions. Usually they were harmless—appearing out of nowhere in the shadows, throwing their voices to imitate ghosts, hiding in tight spaces until they could grab the ankles of passersby. Sometimes they weren’t harmless, and people died, or went missing. 

But Shiro has never seen an expression of such abject fear on a  _ bogeyman’s  _ face before, and that’s more than enough to convince him to play along. He permits himself to be hauled behind the cart, adrenaline already starting to rush as he prepares for danger. As casually as possible, he glances around the hot dog cart and its patrons in the direction Pidge had been looking.

His heart turns to ice, and fear races up his spine.

Ellen Sanda strolls through the west gates of Arusian Park with precise, military bearing, straight-backed and head held high. To the casual observer, she probably appears perfectly ordinary: an older woman with close-cropped gray hair, gray eyes, and a severe expression. Her outfit is professional, in that it blends in perfectly with the other tourists—baseball cap, light windbreaker, jeans and tennis shoes, and a small backpack for a picnic lunch or a casual tour through the many attractions.

Only Shiro is aware that she’s one of the deadliest people alive. He’s sure she has no less than twenty weapons on her person—more with the backpack, which is probably full of hunting supplies. She’s already observing the park with a practiced gaze, noting each escape point, each hiding place, each tourist’s placement. 

Ellen Sanda—one of the most efficient Covenant of St. George agents of the twenty-first century.

Shiro swallows. “They found me,” he whispers, after a long, horrifying moment.

His heart is pounding, and his mouth is suddenly dry. Despite his best efforts, his hands shake, and he feels rooted to the ground. This is the culmination of every one of his nightmares since he was eighteen, and the cause for his constant paranoia. And now it was here, finally happening. 

How had he not known? He and Allura have  _ dozens  _ of measures to tell when Covenant agents enter the country, much less Garrison. How had she gotten  _ this  _ far, within viewing distance of him? 

And worst of all, why  _ Sanda?  _ Any of the Covenant agents would have been bad, but Sanda was one of their best. Her kill count was enormous, and her combat skills so renowned that she had earned herself the nickname ‘the Admiral.’ She had been with the Covenant for decades, and had more victories and more experiences than many other agents could lay claim to. 

If Sanda wanted him dead, Shiro was going to die.

_ Don’t panic,  _ a little voice in Shiro’s mind orders.  _ She hasn’t seen you yet. There’s still time to act.  _

He swallows, although his throat feels too dry, and turns to glare at the bogeyman next to him. “I thought you said your ‘outside source’ wouldn’t be used by the Covenant?” he accuses, voice sharp. 

“They wouldn’t!” Pidge insists. She, too, looks quite frightened, eyeing Sanda’s position warily from around the cart. “I mean that. She’s been following  _ me  _ for days, back from Europe even. I don’t think she knows you’re here, yet.”

“So you led her right to me?” Shiro asks. He doesn’t mean to be sharp with her, but with his adrenaline pounding and his instincts screaming to _flee,_ he’s not feeling at his best. “Are you _trying_ to get me caught?”

“No!” Pidge snaps back. “From what I’ve heard about you, you’re the  _ only  _ person to ever escape the Covenant, human or cryptid. I need your help to do it too.” 

Shiro groans. 

He really wants no part of this. Sanda is pacing ever closer, and his mind is screaming at a fever pitch now, frantic to escape before it’s too late. If she really doesn’t know he’s here, he  _ has  _ to get out, immediately. Get out, and form a plan. Ditching the bogeyman would be the fastest way to do so and would be guaranteed to save his own skin.

Except, easy as it would be, he can’t leave a kid like Pidge at the mercy of the Covenant. He knows what Sanda will do to her if she gets caught. His mind is a whirl of panic, but the rules in his heart override even that. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to slow his rapid heart, and calm his frantic mind.  _ You’ve done it before. You’ve planned for this for years. You can do it again.  _

“Does she know you’re a bogeyman?” Shiro asks curtly. 

“Pretty sure, yeah. She’s gotten a look at me before.” 

“Is she working with anyone else?” 

“I’ve never seen anyone but her,” Pidge says, frowning.

“You would have by now, or she wouldn’t have let you escape Europe,” Shiro says. “Alright. Do  _ exactly  _ what I say, got it?”

Pidge swallows, but nods. 

Shiro checks Sanda’s position again. She’s currently investigating the crowd surrounding the famous Lion’s Pride fountain, five lions roaring at the sky as they blast jets of water from their mouths. If ever there’s a time to move, it’s now.

“Walk normally,” he instructs, placing a hand to her back and gently but firmly guiding her towards the baseball game. “Don’t run.” He can feel her muscles quivering with the effort of  _ not  _ fleeing, and he can bitterly relate to that. Only years of his own training are keeping him from bolting like the hounds of hell are after him.

“The park gate—” Pidge protests.

“She’s counting who goes in and out,” Shiro says. “That’s not an option for us. We need one of the other park gates to get out.” 

He guides Pidge towards the ball game, where the crowd has grown even bigger. It would be easy to get lost in the crowds of cheering sports fans, but Sanda would expect a maneuver like that and would be watching carefully. Which means a different tactic is in order.

“Ditch the hoodie,” Shiro instructs, the moment they round the corner at the back of the metal bleachers. There’s almost nobody back here, with no shade to offer and a poor view of the game. 

Pidge gives him an alarmed look. “But she’ll see me! And so will everyone else. I can’t exactly walk around in public easily. And the sunlight—”

“Sanda probably already has your sweatshirt color memorized,” Shiro says. “She knows you’re a bogeyman, and injured by sunlight, so she’s looking for anyone hiding their face. It’s one of the easiest ways to spot a cryptid in a crowd.  _ Especially  _ in summer—there’s no need for a human to keep a hood up like that. Dump it. Sunlight won’t hurt you for a little bit.”

Pidge swears loudly, but immediately starts shuffling items out of the hoodie pockets and unzipping it, revealing a goofy T-shirt with a science pun. Her grayish pallor will be a little unusual in a crowd, but there’s a lot of people with a lot of different skin tones out there. It won’t be immediately noticeable, especially since she seems to be paler than usual for a bogeyman to begin with. She’s also unnaturally short for a bogeyman, so as long as she keeps her three-knuckled hands and pointier teeth hidden, people won’t notice right away. 

Most importantly, Sanda will be looking for something else, and it might buy them a few minutes. 

Shiro deftly slips under the bleachers as she shucks off the hoodie. Above him, viewers cheer and boo for the baseball players, and the metal stands creak and shiver under the combined movement of excitable crowds. In the distraction, he snatches two unattended baseball caps from a different pair of seats, and brings them back to Pidge. He’s not thrilled about stealing, but survival comes first, and the humans will live. 

“Here,” he says curtly, shoving one of the Olkari Owls hats on her head. It offers a little shade for her eyes, and also obscures her messy hair. He places the second hat on his own head, and then shrugs out of his own light windbreaker, and drops it around her shoulders. “Wear that. Don’t touch anything in it, and hide your hands in your jeans pockets.” 

Pidge shoves her hands into the sleeves and then into her own pockets. She swims in it—it’s far too big for her—but it does an excellent job of breaking up her usual shape. “Geez. What’s in this thing? Rocks?”

“Something like that,” Shiro says curtly. He doesn’t have time to remove his weaponry from the jacket, but he still has enough hidden on his own person if things get nasty. “Let’s go.”

He pulls the baseball cap down a little farther over his forehead and leads the way around the other side of the stands, towards the interior of the park. Pidge looks different enough at first glance that she may not stand out to Sanda right away in a crowd, which is the best he can do on such short notice. 

Himself, he’s not so sure of, and he desperately hopes he’s unrecognizable. He’s grown a couple extra inches since he left the Covenant, and filled out with a little more muscle. His clothing style isn’t the same, and he’d taken to wearing an undercut since moving to Garrison, which makes him look very different when wearing a hat. If he keeps his face turned away, he doesn’t think Sanda could identify him from the back of his head. But he can’t be  _ sure,  _ and there is a very terrified part of him just waiting for the moment she recognizes him across the park and comes for him.

But no one calls his name, and his back isn’t filled with knives or bullets. When he checks discreetly, Sanda’s still occupied with a different group of tourists. For now, they’re safe. Now he just has to keep it that way.

Shiro leads them away from the activity section of the park towards its interior, still walking at a brisk but unremarkable looking pace. The point is to look as normal as possible, and breaking into a run will be noticable. It’s hard to go slow, but Shiro resists, and makes sure Pidge does as well.

For a while they do just fine. They pass crowds of visitors, circle around monuments and sculptures, and keep moving inward. Shiro does whatever he can to put crowds of people between the two of them and Sanda’s position, hoping to break up line of sight in the open sections of the park as much as possible.

As they pass the Balmera Terrace, things get less straightforward. Pidge immediately tries to turn to head into the terrace, with its towering archways and hidden rooms to explore. Shiro grips her shoulder and forcibly steers her back alongside him, passing the entrance.

“We should hide in there!” Pidge hisses, angry. “It’s the first shelter we’ve seen since she showed up!”

“No.”

“But if we stay out here, she’ll see us!” Pidge says. “Okay, fine. One of those archways, then.”

_ “No,”  _ Shiro says, sharper that time. He keeps a firm grip on her shoulder, while doing his best to make it look casual to an outside observer. “If we stay out here, we’re civilians. A bogeyman will duck into shadowy areas like terraces and archways to hide. It’s your first instinct, and she knows it.”

“Because it’s a  _ smart  _ instinct,” Pidge protests. “We need to not be seen, and stay out of direct line of sight!”

“You’re thinking like a bogeyman,” Shiro tells her bluntly, as he steers her down another path, towards the Green Lion Gardens. “She’s  _ hunting  _ a bogeyman. She knows what she’s hunting and where to look to find you. That’s how the Covenant works.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Pidge grouses. “This isn’t going to work—I shouldn’t have expected you to—”

“If you don’t believe me, wait until we get around this corner,” Shiro cuts her off. “You can look back and find her.  _ Carefully.”  _

Pidge does just that, waiting until they round the bend in the path and are blocked by shrubbery before carefully peering behind her. Shiro does the same, taking the opportunity to snap a quick identifying photo of Sanda on his phone as he does.

It comes as no surprise to him to see Sanda already confidently heading for Balmera Terrace. From her stance, he knows she has one hand a fraction of a second away from some kind of shiv or other thin blade up her sleeve. If she were to find a bogeyman in the dark confines of the interior rooms or archways of the terrace, even if there were people around, she’d be able to discreetly make a kill without causing a panic. 

A thin blade through the ribs, spine, or back of the head would be enough to incapacitate or kill easily, without making any noise. She could claim her ‘granddaughter’ was feeling ill, to explain the sudden slump and floppy movements. Walk the body right back out and stash it somewhere hidden in the park for the day when no one was looking, or maybe even get it all the way to the car she no doubt had planted nearby. Dispose of the corpse later. A perfect kill, no muss, no fuss, no humans knowing about the monster that lived in their closet. 

Pidge won’t know all of the details about the specifics, but the sight of Sanda moving unerringly for the hiding place she would have chosen is clearly enough to convince her. She swallows, her face an unusually pale gray once again, and whispers after a moment, “Okay. You win. Lead on.”

Shiro nods. “I promise I will do my best to get you out of this,” he says, as he turns around and gently puts his hand on Pidge’s back again to guide her.

“I notice that’s not ‘I  _ will  _ get you out of this’,” Pidge notes grimly.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Shiro says. “This is a bad situation. Even if we get out of the park, if she’s after you and followed you all the way to America, she’s not going to let this go. Your best bet is going to be getting on a plane as soon as I help you shake her and getting as far from here as you can.”

“I can’t do that,” Pidge says fiercely. “Not when I finally found you.” 

Shiro sighs. “Fine. Focus on escaping, first. Then we’ll talk.”

He leads them through the Green Lion Gardens, down the dozens of little trails and lawns lined with flowers, shrubs and pretty trees. The star attractions, the hedge maze and the topiary, are as full of visitors as always. Shiro hopes the maze serves as a decent distraction for Sanda—there are dozens of little nooks and crannies hidden away in there that a bogeyman might like, and it would definitely waste her time. 

They head past the animal-shaped shrubbery quickly, ducking under the gaze of the exhibit’s centerpiece, the enormous green lion from which the entire gardens earned its name. The shrub animal stares down at them regally; it’s not hard to imagine it as a great guardian, shielding their escape while they try to vanish. Considering the majority of the topiary pieces were designed and maintained by dryads, Shiro wouldn’t completely disregard the possibility that one could come to life, but he certainly can’t expect it to do so now.

The Green Lion Gardens are close to another exit to the park. Shiro leads the way to it as swiftly as he can while still maintaining a reasonable, unremarkable walk. By now, he’s lost sight of Sanda, which is both good and bad. She’s probably been suitably shaken for a few minutes with the number of bogeymen-hides he’s deliberately walked them past, but at the same time, it sends a spike of anxiety through him when he can’t see where the hunter is.

He doesn’t see her observing the gate, though. Not at any obvious posts that a Covenant agent might take up. He bites his tongue, decides to take the chance before it’s too late and she  _ definitely  _ shows up, and leads Pidge through the gate.

It’s an anxiety-fueled, terrifying five seconds of walking before he concludes that nothing happened, and nothing will continue to happen. 

“I can’t believe we got out,” Pidge says, incredulous. 

“We’re not done yet,” Shiro says. “I intend to fully lose the trail, which means we’re going to wander for a bit. I know that will probably make you uncomfortable, being out in the sun for so long. Let me know when you can’t handle it and we’ll find some place to break.”

“I can go a little while,” Pidge says, narrowing her eyes in determination. “If it means finally being rid of her.”

“Good to hear,” Shiro says, leading them off.

The next hour is simply wandering. Shiro knows Garrison like the back of his hand, so he knows exactly where they are, and that’s the single advantage he has over Sanda. Well, that, and the fact that she’s hunting a bogeyman, not an ex-Covenant agent, which means he can use what he knows to help Pidge avoid further contact. 

He avoids any known areas cryptids frequent often—the last thing he wants is to lead Sanda straight to a madhura’s shop, or a bugbear den. But he does deliberately take them past places Sanda might think were viable areas for a bogeyman to hole up. He zigzags, crosses roads, heads through buildings and shops, and avoids any kind of pattern, and eventually even Pidge admits that she is thoroughly lost. Hopefully, Sanda will be as well.

It’s at the end of that hour that Pidge finally admits she needs a break. Her stolen baseball cap is pulled so low over her eyes he can barely see them anymore, and she’s starting to wince in pain as she walks. 

“Alright,” Shiro says. “We’ll take a break. You hungry?”

“Famished,” Pidge admits.

He leads her to a small family restaurant two blocks over, deliberately bypassing a few pubs and diners along the way. The family restaurant is bright and feels distinctly  _ human;  _ Sanda wouldn’t expect a cryptid to hide there. He selects a booth in the back of the restaurant, out of immediate view of the windows and in a position where he can see all the exits. It’s dark enough that Pidge’s grayer pallor can easily be written off as cast shadow by the waitress, and will leave the bogeyman comfortable for at least a little while.

Pidge sighs wearily as she settles into the booth. “Oh, thank goodness. Sunlight  _ sucks.”  _

“I bet,” Shiro says absently, surveying the busy restaurant crowd one last time before finally taking his own seat. 

Pidge watches him expectantly, but there’s something else more important to handle, first. He pulls out his phone, creates a group text to Allura, Keith, Lance, and Hunk, and types up a quick message.  _ Covenant in town. Just one agent so far, I think. See pic. BE CAREFUL, DO NOT ENGAGE, VERY DANGEROUS. Getting details, will update soon.  _ He attaches the photo he’d taken of Sanda from afar, so the team knows who they’re dealing with, and sends it all out. 

Hopefully, by the time he’s done with Pidge, Allura will at least have  _ some  _ information on how the hell a Covenant agent slipped by both his and Allura’s defenses.

Pidge raises an eyebrow as he slips the phone away. “Important message?”

“Very,” Shiro says. “A lot of people need to know there’s a Covenant agent in town, for their own safety.”

Pidge winces. “I didn’t want to put anyone in danger. I just...didn’t know where else to go.”

Shiro sighs. “What’s done is done. You got your wish. You found me, and I got you away from Sanda. I can’t guarantee that will last, so if you really want my help, it’s time to tell me  _ everything.”  _

“Yeah. Of course.” Pidge takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and begins.


	17. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Two

“The word ‘bogeyman,’ much like the word ‘human,’ is gender-neutral. If you ever want to see a bogeyman laugh herself sick, call her a ‘bogeygirl,’ or better, a ‘bogeywoman.’”   
—Verity Price,  _ Discount Armageddon  _

**_A family restaurant in downtown Garrison, trying to not be found_ **

“My father is a scientist,” Pidge starts off. “And he’d been training my brother Matt, too.”

“A scientist?” Shiro says. “That’s an interesting choice of profession.” 

As a general rule, bogeymen tended to prefer things closer to the entertainment business. A significant number of novelists and horror screenplay writers were bogeymen, many successful bars and nightclubs were maintained by them, and they adored pop-up costume stores and haunted houses at Halloween. They were also exceptional at cutting deals and writing contracts, which made them excellent, and thoroughly terrifying, lawyers and negotiators. Science seemed fairly tame for a bogeyman, although admittedly every individual was different, and it did probably lend itself well to nocturnal hours.

Pidge shrugs. “It runs in the family. Anyway, my father, he’d been working on this one research project for years, before I was even born. He always said it was his life’s work, and that if he cracked the code it could be the key to decoding the entire universe.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow at that. “Like, space?” 

Pidge shakes her head. “Wrong universe. You’re thinking up.” She points at the ceiling with one long, three-jointed finger. “You should be thinking down. Or more like, smaller. Building blocks. Fundamentals.” She taps the table in front of her. “See, my dad was studying the link between modern science and the universe as we know it, and magic.”

Both of Shiro’s brows raise that time. Magic wasn’t exactly a  _ common  _ occurrence, and what there was of it was complicated. Many species of cryptid naturally had a gift with certain kinds of magics; sylphs could levitate, caladrii could heal themselves and others, dryads could force grow plants. Humans could harness magic, too, but it didn’t happen often. Natural born sorcerers and witches with a genetic disposition to it were powerful and could unleash extraordinary spells, but they were exceptionally rare. 

Witches could also be made, rather than born. But as far as Shiro knows it can’t be done easily, and even then the magic they harnessed could be oddly picky. Routewitches dealt in distance, and trainspotters could be enormously powerful, but only when they could harness the energy of a vehicle on rails. Magic operated by its  _ own  _ laws of physics. Shiro can’t see how it could possibly be linked with modern science.

Then again, Shiro isn’t a scientist. If someone with a better mind than him for this sort of thing thought there was a link, who is he to argue?

“Just think of the possibilities,” Pidge continues, eyes glittering brightly with excitement as she warms to the topic. “Magic is capable of almost anything, if you know what you’re doing. It can manipulate all kinds of matter and energy. You can fix things, save things from dying, manipulate fire or ice, enchant items, predict things, siphon or redirect energy...the list is endless. You can even break into other worlds and planes of existence, with the right summoning spells, or pull things from other places here.” 

“Not necessarily for the better,” Shiro points out. 

There are at least a few species of cryptid that exist on Earth that, as far as anyone can tell, don’t belong there and do not contribute to the ecosystem in any capacity. The Covenant had assessed that Apraxis Wasps and Johrlacs originated ‘not of this world.’ Shiro had been both impressed and horrified to find cryptozoologists in the cryptid community had theorized essentially the same thing. The standard accepted theory was that creatures like these squirmed their way in from another reality entirely, and were an invasive species to this one. 

They’re still some of the few things Shiro will shoot on sight, without any attempt at negotiation, because they are  _ that  _ terrifying and dangerous.

“No,” Pidge agrees, “But the fact is you can  _ do  _ it, and it’s even proven. But only certain species are capable of doing certain things naturally. Even learned forms of magic have extremely complicated rules that don’t seem to make any logical sense, when you think about it in terms of how we understand the laws of reality today. And we still don’t understand _ why  _ those rules are the way they are. 

“I mean, why do trainspotters need trains, and why are train-related magic users so good at detecting lies?” She waves her hand with emphasis. “Did they just not  _ exist  _ a couple hundred years ago? Did trainspotting magic spontaneously begin to exist when the relevant equipment was invented? If we invent something new in the next hundred years, will it spawn a  _ new  _ kind of magic? Or has it always been there, and we just stumbled over a way to harness it by accident?” 

“I have no idea,” Shiro admits. 

“Neither do we,” Pidge says, “But that’s what my dad’s been studying for his whole life. There  _ has  _ to be a fundamental set of rules that ties this whole new set of laws of reality together. We don’t understand them currently, even if we dabble with them. It’s the same as people thousands of years ago knowing if they could keep a fire going if they gave it fuel, but didn’t understand the chemical reactions going on to  _ make  _ that fire. My father wants to know how it all works, under the surface.”

“That would definitely shake things up,” Shiro agrees. Magic was such a fiddly thing, surrounded by mysticism. But if there were fundamental laws to it, it would be an incredible discovery.

“It would change  _ everything,”  _ Pidge says enthusiastically. “Imagine if you could harness how a caladrius heals and apply that in a standardized setting. Hospitals and clinics would improve so much! And that’s just one kind of magic. Figure out the rules for other kinds, and the possibilities are endless. Agriculture would benefit. Charms to protect or help people would be more commonplace and a lot more affordable. The community could improve by a huge margin!” 

It could also be very easily weaponized, Shiro can’t help but think. Magic could be a boon. It could also be deadly, and not everyone would use it for noble intentions. But Pidge’s enthusiasm is almost adorable, and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood.

“So, is your father making any progress?” Shiro asks, as their food arrives. He sinks his teeth into his burger as his stomach rumbles, reminding him how hungry he is. Evading the Covenant on an empty stomach was brutal.

Pidge’s face falls, and she stares at her own burger without touching it. “I...I don’t know.”

Shiro frowns. 

“That’s kind of what I need your help with,” Pidge says. She swallows. “About six years ago, my dad  _ and  _ my brother Matt went missing while on a research trip. My mom and I haven’t seen or heard from them since.”

Shiro’s eyes widen.  _ Six years ago... _ it would have been around then that he’d accidentally stumbled across her brother—Matt?—when fighting a troll, and inadvertently saved his life. And then quite deliberately spared it.

The pieces are starting to come together, now. Unfortunately, they’re not making a picture he likes the look of.

“I’ve been looking for them ever since,” Pidge says. “At first we waited for news. I mean, my dad and brother were in Europe at the time researching magical history and trying to get in contact with some old caster families. But Europe is also Covenant territory. They had to be careful about contacting home, and we knew it. Sometimes they’d go off the grid for a bit and we wouldn’t hear from them for a couple weeks. It was always a little scary when they went silent, but we’d get news eventually.”

“Except this time you didn’t,” Shiro guesses.

Pidge nods in agreement. “They took way too long to get back to us. We started getting worried. We called a few of their last known contacts—nobody had heard from them. Tried some scryers...nothing. It was like they disappeared.” 

“And you’ve never heard from them since?” Shiro asks, frowning. “Or anyone else who’s seen them?”

“No,” Pidge says, still staring at her food. “Nothing. I’ve got  _ nothing.  _ My mom and I tried everything. We called in every favor, asked everyone who’d ever talked to them for help or if they’d heard from them. We paid routewitches to try and divine answers, but none of them could find any. We don’t know what happened to them. It’s like they vanished.” 

Shiro presses his lips together for a moment, considering how to approach his thoughts delicately. “I’m sorry I have to bring this up, but—considering the territory they were in, have you considered they might be dea—”

“They’re  _ not  _ dead,” Pidge snarls, glaring warningly. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. When she speaks again a moment later, she’s a little calmer than before. “They’re not dead. I know that sounds like denial, but they’re  _ not.  _ My mom paid a routewitch to try and speak to the dead, to call them, but she got no answer. That means they have to be alive.”

It doesn’t necessarily mean that. There are things to bind or trap ghosts, assuming the routewitch was playing legit in the first place. Even if they were, the last known location of Pidge’s family was in Europe. Shiro is reasonably sure a routewitch can’t speak to overseas ghosts—their power lies in roads, and there are no roads to Europe from America. 

But it seems like a sensitive topic, so for now Shiro moves on. They can revisit it again in the future if need be. For now, he still has other questions.

“Okay. So your father and brother vanished somewhere in Europe, and nobody knows what happened to them,” Shiro summarizes. “Which leads me to ask...what do I have to do with all of this?” 

“I’m hoping you can help me find them,” Pidge says.

Shiro frowns. He has a terrible feeling he knows what direction this is going in, but he has to keep pushing anyway. “Why me, exactly? Do you think they ended up in Garrison? I know some people in the community that could try to help, but—”

“No,” Pidge interrupts. “That’s not it. I mean, I would love it if they  _ were  _ here, but…” She swallows, and gives him a look that’s very quickly losing hope. “You really don’t...you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Shiro shakes his head slowly. “No. I’m sorry, I’m still out of the loop on this. Are you asking me for insider Covenant information? Because if you suspect they’ve been captured, I don’t know how to break this to you easily, but the Covenant doesn’t take prisoners. Not with cryptids, and not for that long. If you think they were found by the Covenant—”

“No,” Pidge says. She shakes her head again, but this time it’s less furious denial, and more an expression of horrified, growing realization. “No, that’s not it at all, that’s...he  _ said.  _ He said you’re the one. You’re the last one. I thought for sure…”

“Who said?” Shiro’s frown grows deeper. “Your father? Your brother?”

“No. No, I…” Pidge squeezes her eyes shut in frustration. “I was so  _ close.”  _

“Kiddo, you need to talk to me if you want me to help you,” Shiro says, growing more concerned by the moment.

Pidge grimaces for just a moment, exposing her much sharper than usual teeth, before abruptly slumping in defeat. “I needed to find them,” she says. It sounds defensive. “I would do  _ anything  _ to find them.”

Shiro can feel his heart starting to sink into his stomach. “Pidge. What happened? What did you do?” 

Pidge swallows. “No one could help us. Nobody knew the answers. Nobody was willing to take the risk to hunt for them in Covenant territory. I tried, I even left home to head overseas to look for them myself, but I couldn’t find anything, and...and I think maybe I did something to catch the Covenant’s attention. I didn’t know what else to do. Nobody mortal had answers.” 

She closes her eyes for a moment, and then says softly, “So I...I went to the crossroads.”

The sinking feeling in Shiro’s stomach turns into a full-force plummet. “You  _ didn’t.  _ Please tell me you didn’t.”

Pidge’s shoulders hunch a little defensively again. “I told you. I would do  _ anything  _ for my family. And I’m a  _ bogeyman. _ I figured if anybody had a shot of cutting a good deal, it’d be me.”

Bogeymen do have a strong reputation for being excellent with deals and negotiations. Under normal circumstances, anyone dealing with a bogeyman is almost guaranteed to come out of the deal worse. 

But the crossroads are not normal circumstances, and never will be.

The crossroads were one of those strange truth-in-myths that existed all over the world, with hushed stories passed down in cultures everywhere. Head down to the crossroads with a desire in mind, a goal to achieve, and strange things could happen. Spirits lingered by crossroads, and they were close to otherworldly places, places of mystery and power.

Deals were cut at the crossroads. Stories varied on what, exactly, was on the other end of the negotiating table; some said demons, some fairies, others spirits. Modern cryptozoology has always been unclear on if it was some type of cryptid or something else entirely signing contracts on wishes and desperate desires. 

But one thing was clear: you might technically get what you bargained for, but it might not be what you wanted. Sometimes deals would happen to the letter, not to the spirit. Sometimes they were twisted so out of scope they were only just barely met. And always, the price was steep, and probably worth far more than whatever you had bargained for.

“Kid, you should  _ never  _ deal with the crossroads,” Shiro says, barely containing his horror. “ _ Never.  _ Not even if you’re so good at negotiations you could convince the Covenant to accept the cryptid community as kindred spirits, you could  _ never  _ win against the crossroads.”

“I know, I know!” Pidge says, frustrated. “I know it was reckless. Stupid. But you don’t understand. I have to find them. I will do  _ anything  _ to find them.”

“Is that what you asked for?”

“Yes,” Pidge says. “I wanted to know if they were still alive, and how to find them.”

“That obviously didn’t work out, since you’re here,” Shiro says grimly. 

Pidge shakes her head. “No. No! It was...it should have worked. They—he—sent me to you. He said you were the last person to see one of them that I would be able to talk to. Matt, I’m guessing, based on the way you reacted to me.”

“Your ‘outside source,’” Shiro realizes, eyes wide. “The crossroads. That’s how you found me, even though I’ve covered most conventional ways. And why you were so sure Sanda didn’t use it to track me.” 

She wasn’t wrong there. The Covenant knew about the crossroads, but viewed it as demonic, a vile practice that resulted in fates worse than death. In that regard, they weren’t really wrong. An agent would never use it.

Pidge nods. “Yeah. He could tell me the exact city, what you looked like, your job, your apartment number, common places you went to....everything I needed to find you.” 

That’s absolutely terrifying. It’s only through sheer force of will that Shiro is able to keep his expression calm. 

“So...so I thought...maybe I’d have a new clue, when I talked to you,” Pidge continues. “He had so much information to give me about  _ you,  _ and if he was stressing meeting so much, I was so sure you’d know…”

“Pidge,” Shiro says softly, sympathetic. “I’m so sorry. I did see your brother, once, but that was six years ago. I’ve never seen him since. And I don’t think I’ve ever met your father. I know some bogeymen in the community, but none of them are scientists.” 

The expression that crosses Pidge’s face is one of absolute defeat. Without her stubbornness, independence, and fierce loyalty to her family, she looks as young as she actually is, and so small and frail for a bogeyman. She pulls her knees up to her chest on the booth, wraps her too-long arms around them, and huddles in on herself.

“So...he lied to me,” she says, after a moment. “After all this time, I thought I finally had a chance, and he lied to me…”

Shiro shakes his head grimly. “I don’t think the crossroads can do that, technically. But they are notorious for manipulating the truth to their advantage. They did give you information about your brother. It’s just six years out of date.” 

Pidge moans, burying her face in her knees for a moment. Shiro feels awful watching. She’s so miserable, and the last of his frustration for her is starting to melt away in favor of sympathy. He’d like to offer her  _ something _ —a hug, or a pat on the shoulder—but they’re still strangers, and he doubts she’d appreciate it. 

But he can’t imagine what she’s been through for the past six years. He’s been separated from his own family for as long, but even if that’s hard sometimes, it’s always been by choice. To be so close to your family, and to have them disappear without knowing what had happened, without any closure...it has to be terrifying. 

“What do I do now?” she asks, after a very long moment. “I went to the crossroads for nothing. I’ve got nothing to show for it, if you can’t help me.”

Shiro closes his eyes for a moment. He’s almost afraid to ask the next question. “Pidge...what did you pay?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“You don’t...Pidge, you have to barter  _ something  _ with them,” Shiro says, alarmed. “That’s how they operate. You pay something and you get something. Usually the something you get wasn’t worth the price you paid, or it wasn’t really what you asked for, just close  _ enough.  _ But both sides have to offer something.” 

Most people thought the price was souls; Faustian deals were very popular in western mythology and lore. The actuality was a lot less clean cut and abstract. The crossroads could ask for any kind of collateral or payment. Abilities, lives, people, memories, service, changes in lifestyle. The enormity of the price might not be immediately apparent, not until a long time later. Desperate enough people would still pay, just like Pidge.

“I know. I _know.”_ Pidge hesitates, and nervously licks her lips. “I didn’t...promise them anything immediate. Right away.”

“Which means…”

“I owe them a favor.”

Shiro feels the blood drain from his face. “They could make you do anything, kiddo.  _ Anything. _ You understand that, right?”

“I know,” Pidge says, fierce desperation in her voice. “But I have to find my family. I  _ have  _ to get dad and Matt back. It’s not negotiable.”

“Pidge, you don’t understand,” Shiro says, struggling to make her grasp the enormity of her price. “They could lead you right to your father or brother, and then call in their favor, and you’d have to kill them, or turn them over to the Covenant, or...anything. Until you pay your debt, they  _ own  _ you.”

“I know,” Pidge whispers. “I know. That’s why I was hoping so badly you’d have the answers. If you had  _ something  _ for me to work with...if I could just find them...things will get better. I know they will.” Her long arms tighten around her folded knees. “But if you don’t know anything, then…”

Shiro takes a deep breath. God, this kid was in  _ so  _ far over her head it’s a wonder she’s not drowning yet. A debt unpaid to the crossroads, and one of the most dangerous Covenant agents currently alive on her tail. And all of it led her to him, under the false assumption that he could fix everything.

He can’t. Not so easily as that. But it isn’t in his nature to let people drown without at least trying to give them a hand. 

“Okay,” he says, after a long moment. “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, you’re going to eat, because no matter how this shakes out, you will need your strength.” He pushes her plate of burger and fries towards her insistently.

She blinks at him, disbelieving. “Huh?”

“I can’t help the way you want,” Shiro says. “I don’t know your brother or your father, like I said. But I am in the business of helping people, and there may be other things I can do here. At the very least, I can try to keep you safe from Sanda. And maybe I can help you figure out this thing with the crossroads, too.” 

Pidge’s eyes light up at that. “Could you really do that?  _ Would  _ you really do that?”

“I’m already in this far with you,” Shiro says. “I’ll need to deal with Sanda regardless, and make sure she’s not killing people. That would include you, too.” Although the thought of having to deal with Sanda in any capacity makes Shiro want to be physically ill from fear. 

“I don’t know what I can do about the crossroads, but there are some people we can talk to, I think,” Shiro finishes. “Maybe they’ll have ideas. Preferably before your debt comes due.” 

The relief on Pidge’s face is so strong Shiro can practically feel the emotion coming off of her in waves. “Thank you. Thank you  _ so much,”  _ she breathes, her voice shaky but hopeful. “I didn’t know what else I was going to do, I... _ thank you.”  _

“It’s no problem,” Shiro says. “We will figure out a way through this. We just need to think it through.”

Pidge nods. She finally releases her folded knees and pulls her untouched food close, appetite suddenly restored. “Right. Right, I can do this.  _ We  _ can do this. And if I find them with only a little bit of the crossroad’s help, maybe I won’t need to pay as much. There has to be a clue here somewhere. They’re screwing with me, but if I can beat them…”

Shiro closes his eyes for a moment. Beat the crossroads. Nobody’s ever beaten the crossroads, not so far as he knows. They’re bad news, no matter what side you’re on, Covenant or cryptid. Everything he was taught when he was young told him to stay the hell away from them, and everything he’s learned since concurs. 

But Pidge is asking him directly for his help, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least  _ try.  _

And something about Pidge’s crossroads story stinks to him. He doesn’t know enough about the crossroads other than the rumors and stories to know what it is, but he might know some people who are experts on the subject. It’s better than anything else Pidge has so far.

“You  _ did  _ meet my brother, though, right?” Pidge asks, through a mouthful of burger. 

“Yes. Once.” Shiro thinks back once more to that fateful night, the battle against the troll, and the moment he realized that maybe not all cryptids were evil. “Though, I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. To thank him. He did me a favor, whether he realizes it or not.”

“He did?” Pidge asks, attentive. She drinks up even the tiniest details about her missing family almost as fast as she drains her coke. It’s a little heartbreaking to watch. “How did you meet? Were you friends? What happened?”

“It’s complicated,” Shiro admits. “Finish eating, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

* * *

It only takes them half an hour to finish off their food, and for Shiro to pay the check. Sanda doesn’t come strolling through the doors in that amount of time, and Shiro figures they’re probably safe, at least for now. There are a dozen other places she’d probably try first, under the assumption her prey was a lone bogeyman, and not an ex-Covenant agent. 

It doesn’t stop him from leaving Pidge inside the restaurant, just briefly, to do a quick scouting check for danger. It might be excessive in most circumstances, but paranoia is  _ never  _ excessive when it comes to the Covenant.

His scouting turns up nothing, however, which means it’s time to get moving. And there’s only one place Shiro can think of to safely bring Pidge, now that Sanda isn’t on their trail: the Altea penthouse. 

As it turns out, it’s necessary to head there anyway. His friends have been blowing up his phone during his lunch with Pidge, in response to his brief warning; he has half a dozen missed calls and two dozen increasingly more frantic texts. In the last few, Allura threatens to send Lance, Coran and Hunk out hunting for him, to rescue him from the enemy that must have captured him by now. Shiro’s lucky Keith is in his sun coma and completely ignorant of the whole debacle so far, or he’d probably already  _ be  _ here.

In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been a smart idea to go silent after warning everyone about Covenant being in town.

_ Stay put at Allura’s place,  _ Shiro texts back.  _ Lost her trail, coming with a friend. Bogeyman. Warn the guards.  _

Getting to Allura’s place takes longer than Shiro would like. They have to take the bus, because Shiro had left his own vehicle back at Arusian Park. He’s not willing to risk being seen in the vicinity just yet, not when Sanda could still be watching it. If he needs to, he can ask Coran to go grab it for him—as a human and a virtual unknown to the Covenant, Sanda wouldn’t think twice at seeing him in the area. 

But for now, the bus, and then a four-block hike to the penthouse itself, watching his back the whole time for a trail.

Allura’s security is extra vigilant, which Shiro is grateful to see. They’d taken his warning about a new Covenant agent in town seriously. Unfortunately, it also means they regard him with even more suspicion than usual as they catalogue his weaponry for the day.

“Did you call your friend in from overseas?” one of the guards, a sasquatch with most of his hair shaved so that he looks almost human, asks as he glares at Shiro and takes note of his knives. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Shiro says, as patiently as he can manage. “I don’t want to be found by her either. As far as she’s concerned, I’m a traitor.” 

The sasquatch grunts in response, obviously not convinced. He’s loyal to Allura, though, and grudgingly lets Shiro through the checkpoint. Pidge is already on the other side, looking rather small and scrawny for a bogeyman ever since Shiro took his windbreaker—and its hidden arsenal—back. She hadn’t had much on her besides that, and it hadn’t taken long to search her.

“What  _ is  _ this place?” Pidge asks, bewildered, as security finally waves them on to the main elevator.

“A place that can help you,” Shiro says. “I don’t want to say too much more until we get up top. Oh—and head’s up, there’s Aeslin mice, so...don’t be too surprised when the room starts cheering.” His congregation  _ always  _ had an acolyte at vigil by the door these days, waiting for him to show up so they could partake of his wisdom, or some such thing.

“Aeslin mice?” Pidge blinks for a moment as they step into the elevator, but then her eyes widen in excitement, and she bursts into an enormous grin. Without all the anxiety and stubborn determination she usually wears, she actually looks quite young, but so much healthier and happier. “I thought they were extinct! Dad always wanted to find a colony, he said they have great memories and might remember old spells or histories we could use to learn more about how magic works. Do you think they would talk to me about it?”

“The problem would be getting them to stop talking,” Shiro says honestly. “Or for that matter, understanding what they say.”

“What does  _ that  _ mean? Do they speak a different language?”

“They can speak English, but it’s hard to understand them all the same,” Shiro says with a sigh. “You’ll learn to hear capital letters pretty fast. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”

There isn’t just one mouse when the elevator doors slide open. What appears to be his entire congregation is there, and they burst into enthusiastic cheers and  _ hails,  _ waving little flags and rattling little staves and chattering in holy excitement.

“HAIL, High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness!” the head priest of Shiro’s sub-order proclaims. “For he has returned Victorious after facing the Unbelievers!” 

“Woah,” Pidge says, awed. “This is...wow.  _ Wow.”  _

“I tried to warn you,” Shiro says. To the mice, he adds, “There wasn’t any victory. We saw her and we ran. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that’s not a fight we’re ready for.”

The mice consider this carefully for a moment, before the head priest proclaims, “Lo, the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness shows wisdom! For there are some fights that Cannot Be Fought. As the High Priest of Seas and Celebrations once taught, ‘You Must Know When To Hold Them, And When To Fold Them.’” 

“Yeah, sure. What he said,” Shiro agrees passively, although privately he has no idea which priest that is. Possibly a friend of Allura’s father, or maybe mother, or maybe of her relatives before that. The Aeslin have named everyone major in the Alteans’ lives since they first began to worship Allura’s family. As far as Shiro can tell, the main family itself are gods and goddesses, and all extraneous close friends that are almost-but-not-quite family are honorary high priests. Marriage to a ‘god’ or ‘goddess’ means ascending to godhood oneself. 

Aeslin religion is complicated. 

The Aeslin aren’t the only ones to greet them close to the door. Coran is already there, and Allura, Hunk, and Lance are coming down the hall, drawn by the commotion from the mice. They stop at the sight of Shiro and Pidge, and Pidge freezes at the sight of them.

“This day just keeps getting crazier,” Pidge says after a moment. She looks stunned. “Is that a real caladrius? Dad always wanted to meet one too, to ask them how their healing powers worked.  _ Wow.  _ I really wish he was here right now, he’d  _ love  _ this.” 

She looks a strange mix of delighted and disappointed at that, so Shiro puts a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “Allura is nice, and her job is helping people, too,” he says. “I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you, when this is all over.”

Pidge nods. “Thanks.”

“Shiro!” Allura says. “You’re alive! We were concerned, after you warned us of the Covenant and went silent…”

“I’m sorry for that,” Shiro says. “I was talking to Pidge here to try and scope out the situation.” He pats Pidge’s shoulder once before letting her go, and pointing at everyone as he introduces them. “This is Coran, Allura, Lance, and Hunk. Guys, this is Pidge. Pidge has a couple problems I’m hoping we can help her with, one of which was the Covenant agent I warned you about.”

“Where is that agent now?” Coran asks. Although his voice is full of concern, the way he holds himself suggests military readiness, as though he half expects Sanda to burst through the elevator doors behind them and start swinging. Shiro can’t entirely fault him for the wariness; it  _ is  _ his job to protect Allura at all costs.

“Gone, for now. She’s still in the city, but I managed to help Pidge here shake her trail.”

“Are you sure about that?” Coran asks, still wary. He’s clearly not happy with the situation. “If she managed to follow you, and you led her right to Allura’s home…” 

“I promise, I broke the trail,” Shiro says. “Sanda is convinced she’s following a single bogeyman. She’s using tactics to catch a bogeyman. I gave her some false places to look, kept Pidge out of obvious bogeyman haunts, and tracked all over the city. Sanda won’t find this place, and as long as Pidge doesn’t leave again, she won’t have the chance to pick up the trail once more.”

“She could have other tracking methods,” Coran says, unconvinced. “You of all people ought to know the Covenant has more than one way to find their so-called ‘monsters.’” 

“You’re right,” Shiro agrees, although he knows they’re safe. It’s just a matter of proving it. “Pidge—were you ever captured by Sanda?”

“No,” Pidge says, frowning. “You said they don’t do captives, anyway.”

“Did you ever bleed from an encounter with her, or leave blood behind after a fight?”

Lance raises an eyebrow at that. “What—do you guys use bloodhounds or something?”

“Something like that,” Shiro says. “Pidge?”

“No blood,” Pidge confirms. “She never had a chance to injure me. She almost grabbed me a few times, and she got my backpack with my spare clothes and my laptop once—ripped it right off my shoulders. But no blood.”

“Then we’re fine,” Shiro confirms. “If she doesn’t have blood, she can’t employ a tracking spell.” 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Hunk says, holding his hands up and waving them in a ‘halt’ gesture.  _ “Tracking spell?”  _

At the same time, Pidge, bewildered, yelps, “The Covenant uses  _ magic?  _ Isn’t that...against what you do?”

“They, not me,” Shiro says. “And there’s...a fine line, in Covenant doctrine, for human magic users. It can be considered a necessary evil in certain regards, but witches in the Covenant’s employ are monitored  _ very  _ carefully and only used for certain things. Like tracking spells.”

“That’s insane,” Pidge says. “My dad and Matt had  _ no  _ idea.” She frowns. “Or maybe they did, and that’s what happened. I don’t know, but I’ve learned more in the past two hours than I have in years...maybe he was right to send me to you.”

“These tracking spells...they need blood?” Allura asks, pulling the conversation back on track.

“There are charms that can attune to blood,” Shiro says. “They can be used to find the owner of that blood. One of the first things I did when I left was burn mine.”

“Why would they have one for  _ you?”  _ Lance asks, bewildered. “Weren’t you like, the star pupil of the Covenant before you left? I thought Shiroganes were supposed to be like, the elites there, even by Covenant standards.”

“It would be to find my body if I died in the line of duty, so I could be given a proper funeral and burial,” Shiro says quietly. “Or to rescue me, in the event I was badly injured or taken on a hunt. They haven’t had a traitor in a long time. These are supposed to be safety backups, not insurance policies if one of us went rogue.”

“Oh,” Lance says meekly. 

“But they can be used for prolonged hunts, if there was a first encounter that went poorly,” Shiro says. “If a Covenant agent fought something that got away, but left blood behind, it could be used if the blood is fresh enough. Create a charm, and find the target holed up wherever they went to.” 

“But that’s not a problem, because I didn’t get injured,” Pidge says, with obvious relief. “Lucky. I didn’t even know they could do that…”

“What about the backpack she stole?” Coran asks, still wary. “Could she get tracking materials from that?”

“It’s a spell, not a DNA test,” Shiro says. “It’s not like offering a shirt with a person’s scent to a dog and following them. It requires fresh blood—and a significant amount of it.” 

He shakes his head. “I understand your concern, Coran, but I’m positive that for now we’re safe. It’s been a couple hours since we saw Sanda, and we sat still for some of that time. If she had any kind of tracking charm, she would have honed in on us immediately. Sanda isn’t a witch either—she can’t make those charms on her own, and I don’t think she has a partner, from what Pidge has told me. I’m sure I wasn’t followed. For now, we’ve foiled her.”

“HAIL!” the mice cheer. “HAIL THE WISDOM AND THE CUNNING OF THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS!”

Shiro ignores them, long used to doing so. “What we  _ do  _ have to worry about,” he says, “is a plan for dealing with her  _ next  _ time. I was able to avoid her for now, and get Pidge to a safe haven. But that won’t last forever.”

Shiro gestures to Pidge. “Sanda’s focused on hunting a single bogeyman at the moment, so she may not deliberately go out of her way to hunt other cryptids right now. That doesn’t mean she won’t attack if somebody blatantly shows they aren’t human in front of her. We need to figure out how to get her out of the city, and keep Pidge and everyone else alive while doing so.” 

Allura nods, cutting off Coran’s protest. “I agree. Let us all go into the sitting room, and we can discuss our next steps. Pidge—welcome to my home. I am sorry for your troubled circumstances, but if Shiro wishes for us to help you, then I will do my best to assist.”

“Thanks,” Pidge says. She looks a little dazed, and Shiro can’t really blame her. This is a lot to take in all at once. He gently puts a hand to her back to nudge her forward. Once she’s moving she recovers herself, and follows obediently after the others. 

They settle in the sitting room quickly—Shiro, Pidge, his friends, and a large congregation of mice. The rest of the group had clearly been discussing the issue already, because there’s several large printed photographs of the picture of Sanda that Shiro had taken earlier to review. A large TV screen on one wall displays several other grainy photographs of Sanda from other angles and other encounters, to judge by the photo quality and different clothing. 

“You’ve done your research, I see,” Shiro says, nodding to the screen as he settles into his chair. 

“What we can,” Allura agrees. “The community tries to keep tabs on notable Covenant members. We’ve seen this one before, but don’t have much information on her. Most of our intelligence comes from tracing Covenant family lineages. De Lucas, Healeys, Cunninghams…”

“Shiroganes,” Shiro finishes grimly. He wonders if Allura has dossiers of his parents, grandparents, and other extended family. He wonders if she had one of  _ him.  _ Maybe that was how she’d found him so quickly, six years ago.

“Yes,” Allura says, after only a moment’s hesitation. “But this one I don’t have as much information on. She’s been involved in some great tragedies, but beyond that…”

“I can fill in the gaps,” Shiro says, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. He stares forward at the grainy images, and can’t quite bring himself to look at the others as he speaks. 

“This is Ellen Sanda. You won’t be able to trace her Covenant lineage because she’s new blood, relatively speaking, not one of the old families. She doesn’t lead the organization, but she’s well respected by its leaders and most of the common agents because she is _very_ good at what she does. So good, in fact, she earned the nickname ‘the Admiral.’ She is extremely dangerous, one of the Covenant’s best.” 

Lance frowns. “But she’s  _ old.  _ Look at her. I mean, Covenant are bad, yeah, but how bad could she be?”

“This is no joking matter,” Shiro says, voice sharp, as he turns to look at Lance. “She’s very dangerous, and you need to take this seriously.” 

“But she’s gotta be pushing, what, sixty? She can’t be faster than me. C’mon, Shiro.”

“Think about it, Lance. Covenant agents spend their entire lives fighting cryptids. The ones that last this long?” He gestures at the photos of Sanda. “Are the ones that  _ always win,  _ anytime they track something down, and any time something comes after  _ them. _ ” 

“Oh,” Lance mutters, shrinking down into his seat a little.

“I can’t stress this enough to  _ all  _ of you,” Shiro presses, glancing around at them all, making sure he meets the gazes of Hunk, Pidge, Allura, and Coran by turn. “Covenant agents are human. They  _ know  _ they don’t have the natural advantages most of you have when it comes to speed, strength, stealth, or special abilities. That’s why they train to find counter solutions to those advantages. You’ve seen me fighting things that are bigger, faster, and stronger than me and win. Sanda was responsible for training me in a lot of those techniques. If you’re careless, she  _ will  _ kill you.” 

Allura’s wings pull close around her like a shield, but when she speaks her voice is cold, and her eyes are like ice as they meet Shiro’s. “And since this Sanda has lived to be so old, how long has  _ she  _ been murdering cryptids?”

Shiro knows she doesn’t mean it, but he can’t help but shiver a little at the accusatory tone in her voice. It reminds him of when he first met her, back when she’d tracked him down and threatened him for his Covenant background. He’s gotten used to Allura as a warm, caring, kind presence, but he’d forgotten how much anger and grief was in her heart because of the Covenant. 

“At least thirty years,” he answers after a moment. “She and her husband were attacked by a ghoul when vacationing. She lived—he didn’t.”

“Oh,” Hunk says, voice soft. “That’s kind of sad. I mean, she’s still super scary, but that sucks.”

Shiro shrugs tiredly. “Most of the Covenant is like that. For Sanda, she spent a year tracking them down and demanded training because of that incident, and she’s been a solid presence in the organization ever since. Her specialty is ghouls, for obvious reasons, but she doesn’t believe sentient cryptids in general can be trusted any more than non-sentient ones.”

“Yes, of course,” Allura says, her voice sharp and cutting. “One individual is absolutely justification to condemn an entire group to genocide.” She makes a disgusted noise. “The blind ignorance and cruelty of the Covenant is unforgivable.” 

“You aren’t wrong,” Shiro says. “But it’s so easy to hate when you’re grieving, and to see monsters where there aren’t always monsters. I know you can understand that.” He meets her eyes, thinking back to when the two of them had first met once again. She must be thinking the same thing, because after a moment she drops her eyes to her lap, frowning softly to herself.

“I’m not excusing her actions,” Shiro says, turning back to address the group as a whole. “Sanda’s been responsible for hundreds of cryptid deaths over the years. Maybe thousands, if you account for non-sentient species, and teams she’s led on missions. 

“But I  _ am  _ saying she is highly motivated, and genuinely believes she is doing the right thing. In Sanda’s mind, every cryptid she kills saves another human family from losing a spouse or a parent or a child. And she is  _ very  _ dedicated to what she does, and very good at it, because of that.” He shakes his head. “So  _ don’t  _ underestimate her, or she’ll kill you, too.”

There’s a long, contemplative silence, other than the soft chattering of the mice as they speak amongst themselves and commit his words to memory. Then, very softly, Hunk asks, “Is...is that what you believed, too? That you were doing the right thing?”

Shiro closes his eyes, and takes a long, deep breath. He’s always known this question would come up one day. His friends generally avoided asking him questions about his past, and usually never asked for too much detail. They knew it was a sore topic for Shiro, and most of them didn’t want to be reminded of the awful things Shiro might have done once, anyway. But Shiro had always known it would surface one day, and today it finally has.

“Yes,” he says, once he steels himself enough to talk at all. “It’s exactly what I used to believe. That’s what I grew up with and what I’d been taught. The only viewpoint I ever saw was that cryptids— _ monsters _ —were cruel, evil things doing their best to snuff out humanity, using all of their natural advantages and abilities against weaker, defenseless humans. That we were the last bastions to stop it, and it was our sacred duty to defend the world until humans no longer had to fear for their lives.”

They stare at him in stunned silence for a moment. Then Pidge asks slowly, “How could you think that, though? I mean...most of us  _ aren’t  _ out there trying to murder humans for the fun of it.”

Shiro laughs, although the sound is bitter. “It’s easy to believe, when you’re surrounded by families that have seen the darker side of the cryptid world for eons. Or when your ranks are regularly filled by newcomers who have suffered from cryptid actions, and are desperate for revenge or a purpose again, because their life is a black hole otherwise. When you only see the bad things, it’s easy to believe the whole world is bad.”

“But you don’t do that anymore,” Lance says. “You saw something different. Why can’t the rest of them?”

“I learned to see differently because I had a different experience.” Shiro nods to Pidge. “With her brother, as a matter of fact. I saw him completely helpless and terrified of me, and I finally saw how cryptids see  _ us.  _ I realized what I had been taught wasn’t what everyone else saw.” Shiro shakes his head. “But you’d have a hard time convincing most Covenant agents whose loved ones were slaughtered by something in cryptid circles, that someone from the exact same species could be personable in different circumstances.” 

“That’s…that’s heavy,” Hunk says, after a long moment. “That’s really heavy. It’s just a big hate circle forever, and nobody wins.”

“That about sums it up,” Shiro agrees tiredly. “I tried to break the cycle, but I’m only one person. I can’t account for all Covenant agents. And based on my experiences, not all cryptids are willing to accept reformed Covenant agents, either.” 

“That is unfortunate, but it’s a much bigger problem than we can face today,” Coran says. “For now, our issue is Sanda. I doubt she’d be converted like Shiro, so what do we do about her?”

“Right.” Shiro raises his head, trying to get back on track. “Sanda’s here on a very specific hunt, after Pidge. She isn’t here with a team, and there hasn’t been enough reported cryptid activity to warrant a purge, so she can’t be a forward scout. She won’t have had the supplies or the connections to remain here long-term if she was trying to keep on Pidge’s tail. If she completes her mission, or it fails, she’ll probably need to go back...as long as she doesn’t see any other cryptid activity in the interim that causes her to call in for a purge.”

“That part is already being handled,” Allura says. “I’ve put the message out to my contacts to begin warning the community to lay low until further notice.”

“Good,” Shiro says. “Sanda’s not familiar with this city, so she won’t know the immediate hot spots to look out for. If she’s not distracted by other things, that leaves her focused on her mission.”

“We can’t just let her kill Pidge here, though,” Lance points out, gesturing at the bogeyman. “Letting the mission complete sounds dangerous.”

“Yeah, I’d really like to get out of this one without being murdered,” Pidge agrees, with a slightly queasy expression. 

“We’re not going to let you die,” Shiro promises. “But there are a few questions I have about this whole thing. How did Sanda get into the country without us knowing? And why is she after Pidge, specifically?” One lone teenage bogeyman didn’t seem worth the effort for someone as high-ranking in the Covenant as Sanda to target. Much less to come all the way to America over.

Pidge perks up at the questions. “You guys have procedures to find out if Covenant agents get into the country?”

“Of a sort,” Allura agrees. “Both of us have contacts in most airports and shipyards who are always watching for known faces. Shiro is also familiar with most of the aliases the Covenant agents use, so we have warning systems in place if any of those names come up on passenger listings for known forms of transport.”

Pidge frowns. “Just word of mouth, huh? If you can get me a decent laptop and WiFi connection I can dig into it for you further. I’d use mine, but like I said, Sanda stole it a while back.”

“A laptop? What are you, a hacker?” Lance asks, laughing.

“Yeah, actually,” Pidge says proudly. “I’m real good with computers. I built my own. Don’t worry, though—Sanda can’t use it to figure out anything about me or you guys, even if she stole it. Everything I had on it was encrypted, and the data wipes if I don’t input passwords on a regular basis. It’s probably already gone by now. I knew I was going into Covenant territory, so I prepared ahead of time.”

The group stares at her for a moment, even Shiro. After a few seconds, Allura says, “Coran—please get Pidge a laptop.”

Pidge grins. 


	18. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for a long time now :)
> 
> Also, we're officially halfway through the story!

“Every deed, whether intended for good or for ill, has its repercussions. Forgetting that is never a wise idea.”   
—Alex Price,  _ The Measure of a Monster _

**_The sitting room of the Altea penthouse, trying to handle way too much at once_ **

The laptop is provided in short order, and Pidge gets to work surprisingly quickly, scowling a little as she boots into the system. “Who does your encryption?”

“I have security agents for that—” Allura begins.

“It’s terrible,” Pidge cuts her off. “They’re bad at their jobs. If I live through all of this, I can upgrade you. Give me a few minutes, I need to make sure nobody can hack me back or trace what I do on this system.”

Watching a bogeyman work on a computer is an odd experience. Bogeymen have extra knuckles that make their fingers inhumanly long, and watching Pidge type is a bit like watching a spider dance on a keyboard. 

But she seems to know what she’s doing. The TV projection is hijacked in a matter of moments, displaying Pidge’s screen instead as she types up lines of code that could be another language or could be gibberish, for all Shiro knows. 

“Here,” Pidge eventually says, and the lines of code on the TV display are replaced with security footage and passenger lists, presumably from Garrison’s small airport. “I came in on the 9:10 from JFK—here’s me.” Pidge points out her own name on one of the flight listings, and pulls up footage as well, showing her deplaning and wandering through the airport. “She wasn’t on my flight, but she had to have been on a close one, because she found me so fast.”

Pidge’s fingers fly over the keys as she hunts through footage. Shiro’s the one to spot her first, though, pointing her out on camera. Sanda is a professional and knows how to keep her face turned enough from public cameras to prevent easy identification, in the event common cops tried to identify a troublemaker after a murder of a ‘human.’ But the airport has a lot of security, and it’s impossible to not be seen at all. 

“There,” he says, pointing out Sanda’s face on the grainy security footage at the top left of the screen.

“Got her,” Pidge says, nodding. She traces Sanda back from there, until she’s found at a different terminal for another airline, deplaning with several dozen other people from a small plane not half an hour after Pidge. From there, it’s a work of minutes for Pidge to pull up the plane’s passenger listing and seating arrangements, and minutes more to match identification information to people.

“Elaine Stanton,” Allura reads the name off of the passport and driver’s license. The name isn’t right, but the photograph that accompanies both documents is definitely Sanda’s. 

“These look really good,” Pidge says, impressed, surveying the passport and license. “Official, if you didn’t look super close.”

“Forgery is one of the many skills the Covenant has gotten very good at,” Shiro admits. “It’s a lot easier to go into and out of countries under assumed names, especially when you’re going to be doing a lot of killing. I had several aliases when I was there, too, and I made myself a lot more when I left.”

“For a group supposedly dedicated to justice, duty, and protection, the Covenant certainly does a lot of things frowned on by the law,” Coran observes, with a raised eyebrow.

Shiro shrugs. “The law doesn’t apply to cryptids...on our side, or on the Covenant’s side. As far as the Covenant is concerned, it’s all justified, since they’re doing it to protect humanity and for the greater good.” 

He turns to face the rest of the team. “More important here is that Elaine Stanton  _ isn’t  _ one of the aliases I know, which means it didn’t trip any red flags at the airport.”

“Someone still should have seen her and warned our network, though,” Allura says, frowning. “Even if we didn’t have a lot of information on this Sanda character, we  _ did  _ still have photographs. They’ve been circulated through all the cryptid supporting staff, human and non-human, at all airports.” 

“Yeah, I think I see your problem there,” Pidge says, typing away frantically on the laptop. She brings up a new bit of footage, with Sanda walking past several security officials. The footage blinks, and Sanda moves on as if nothing had happened.

“What was that?” Hunk asks, frowning. “Play it again?”

Pidge does, and says, “Somebody cut some footage out of here. It’s sloppy, but it’s probably not something human security will notice unless Sanda went on to blow up a plane or something...and since that’s not her target…” She shrugs. 

“She paid somebody off,” Shiro summarizes, voice grim. “Probably one of those security agents.”

“Can she  _ do  _ that here?” Lance asks, alarmed. “I thought America was all inclusive about cryptids? A no-Covenant zone?”

“Not necessarily,” Shiro says. “There are ways to get in. I’ve even done it, before I ran away. These days I have locks on most of those ways in, but I can’t have eyes everywhere at once. And there  _ will  _ be anti-cryptid sympathizers here, just like anywhere else. We’ve seen them before.”

“She can’t have done this to stop word getting out to the cryptid community,” Allura says, frowning.

“Possibly she did,” Shiro says. “Large groups of Covenant are going to be seen if they move in groups. Smaller teams, or solo agents, can get in and out easier without being seen, but it helps if there’s somebody on the other end to grease the wheels and make things go smoothly. She probably also paid him off to make sure she could get all her weaponry through security checks.” Traveling could be difficult with the amount of weaponry Covenant—or ex-Covenant—agents always packed, but that didn’t mean you could go unprepared into enemy territory. 

“What about our eyes in the airport?” Coran asks, frowning.

“Either something happened to them, or they aren’t there anymore,” Shiro says. “It’s definitely worth looking into to shore up those defenses again, but it still doesn’t answer my other question.  _ Why  _ is she following Pidge?”

“I don’t know,” Pidge says, frustrated. “I don’t know what I even did to catch her attention. I knew Europe was Covenant territory, so I was being extra careful while following my dad’s trail.”

“Your dad?” Lance asks, frowning. 

“Pidge is looking for her missing family members,” Shiro summarizes quickly. “We can go into the details later.” 

Lance’s expression turns deeply sympathetic. He probably understands better than anyone else here what Pidge must be feeling, with his own missing family. “Sorry to hear that,” he mumbles. “I hope you find’em soon.”

Pidge swallows, but nods in thanks after a moment.

“Okay,” Hunk says, waving his hands in a ‘hold up’ motion. “Back up a minute. If you’re not sure why this scary Covenant lady started hunting you, do you at least know  _ when  _ she started?”

“It was only a few days ago,” Pidge says. “Just a little bit before I cut the deal.” That causes a few confused expressions, but Shiro waves for them to be silent, and Pidge goes on. “I was in London at the time, trying to follow my dad’s trail. I think he went through a bunch of old-timey, fancy bookstores trying to research information on spells and witchcraft. I was trying to retrace their steps, ask the shopkeeps if they remembered anything, read through some of the books to see if anything might have inspired my dad...that sort of thing.” 

Shiro’s blood runs cold. “London?”

“Yeah.”

“Where in London?”

“I don’t know, a whole bunch of places,” Pidge says slowly. “I was trying to follow messages my father left six years ago.”

“Were any of them just off of Charing Cross Road?” 

“That sounds familiar,” Pidge says. “Why?”

Shiro likes to think he has a pretty strong grip on his emotions. But he can’t keep himself from putting his head in his hands for a moment, and releasing a deep, frustrated sigh.

“Shiro?” Allura asks, alarmed. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re very lucky you aren’t dead, Pidge,” Shiro says, removing his head from his hands. “One of the antiquarian bookstores on Cecil Court, just off of Charing Cross Road, is a front for a Covenant recruitment office. It blends in because there are so many other bookstores. If a bogeyman wandered into a Covenant shop, they’d have identified you immediately.” 

Pidge’s eyes widen, and her gray bogeyman complexion goes almost white. “But...nobody jumped over the counter and tried to kill me, or anything!”

“That’s because it’s a front manned by someone sworn to the order of the pen and the page,” Shiro says. And at their bewildered, confused looks, he adds, “There’s two branches to the Covenant of St. George. Everyone swears to the shield, to protect the secrets of the Covenant and to swear to obey the sacred oath to protect humanity. But afterwards, trainees choose between the order of the secret and the sword, or the order of the pen and the page. The first are the agents who go out into the field and actively hunt. The second aren’t combatants, they’re researchers, for discovering information and improving techniques that the field agents use to hunt and kill cryptids.” 

Pidge swallows, and Hunk says meekly, “This sounds a lot like some kind of fantasy story paladin order thing.”

“Six hundred years ago, the Covenant  _ was  _ considered a paladin order,” Shiro says bluntly. “Up until around the fourteen-hundreds, it was considered a religious organization, until the church finally declared it secular after deciding ‘monsters’ didn’t exist anymore and had all perished in Noah’s flood. The Covenant disagreed and kept hunting anything non-human.” 

“There are really no winners in that story,” Lance mutters.

“So what you’re saying is Pidge only survived because the Covenant member that identified her was a non-combatant,” Coran says, pulling the conversation back on track.

Shiro nods. “He or she would have been stationed there to keep an eye on things and  _ definitely  _ would have identified a bogeyman, no matter how well Pidge disguised herself. But there’s too much surveillance in London for a non-combatant to take action. They would have notified a member of the secret and sword immediately. Pidge is extremely lucky one wasn’t stationed in the area, or she never would have gotten out of the city.”

He groans. “But that definitely explains why Sanda took such interest...and why she’d be able to claim the investigation for herself. A bogeyman wandering into Covenant territory? Right into the  _ heart  _ of their control? And investigating magic on top of it. She almost certainly thinks you’re up to something, either as a spy, or spearheading some kind of attack against them.”

“But I’m not!” Pidge squawks. “I don’t want anything to do with them! I didn’t do any of that!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shiro says. “She won’t see reason in this. You’re a potential threat, and one that was acting unusually, for what they understand bogeymen to be. Her goal is almost certainly to hunt you down, interrogate you, and then kill you once she’s certain she can find other threats, or there aren’t any others.” And  _ interrogation  _ almost certainly meant torture. If it was a non-human, cruelty didn’t count, not in a them-or-us mindset.

Pidge fidgets anxiously. “But what if that’s what happened to my dad and brother?” she asks, after a moment. “I know they were in that  _ area.  _ What if they went into the same bookstore?”

“If they did around the same time I was there, I would have heard of it,” Shiro says. “There would have been rumors for days about strange bogeymen wandering into Covenant territory.” There would have been crueler things to say about it, actually, mocking the idiocy of foolish monsters, but Shiro doesn’t need to get into the details. “There wasn’t anything. And your brother was alive when I saw him last, at least. If there had been a hunt specifically going for a bogeyman that night, I would have known. There wasn’t for that, either.”

“So what do we  _ do  _ about this Sanda?” Allura asks. “We know why she’s following Pidge. That doesn’t help us beat her.”

“It’s a grizzly proposition, but killing her may be the only way,” Coran suggests. He doesn’t look thrilled by it, but he  _ is  _ ex-military, and Allura is first and foremost his priority.

But Shiro shakes his head hastily. “No! No. You can’t kill her.”

Allura frowns. “I understand you knew this person, and were even trained by her, but—”

“It’s not sentimentality, it’s practicality,” Shiro cuts her off. “If she dies overseas, and stops checking in, the Covenant will know. Remember the blood charms? If one of their best agents goes absent without leave, they  _ will  _ send a recovery team. A bigger team, and probably scouts for a purge, because if something could take  _ Sanda _ down it’s obvious there’s a threat at her last known location. Kill her, and we trigger something bigger that we can’t handle.” 

“So we have to get rid of her somehow,  _ without  _ killing her, but without letting her kill Pidge, or anyone else,” Hunk summarizes. “That’s...a really tall order.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “I know. Give me some time to think on it...I’ll try to come up with  _ something.”  _

“Time isn’t something we have a lot of, in this situation,” Coran points out gravely. 

“I know. I just...I need a chance to try and think this through,” Shiro says. He feels so exhausted already, and it’s not even mid-afternoon. And they haven’t even hit on the second problem yet. “Just...for now, stay indoors, make sure everyone is laying low, and try to stay calm. I’ll think of something.” 

Allura looks dubious, but after a moment, she nods. “Very well. I will ensure people are aware of the danger.”

“Good.” Shiro takes a deep breath. “In the meantime, we have a  _ second  _ issue to tackle.”

“What could be worse than a crazy old Covenant lady?” Lance asks, incredulous.

“The crossroads,” Shiro says, and nods to Pidge.

Pidge eyes him cautiously for a moment, but then nods, and launches into her whole story—about her father’s and brother’s research, their disappearance, her and her mother’s attempts to find them, and finally her desperate deal with the crossroads. The rest of the group listens attentively, especially the mice, who lean forward and drink up every word, committing it to perfect memory. 

It’s a solemn group when she finishes; everyone understands the gravity of the situation. Finally, Hunk says, “That all sounds, like,  _ super  _ bad...but what are we supposed to do about it, exactly?”

“I am of the same mind,” Allura admits. “I wish to help, but I would not know what could possibly be done against the crossroads. They have always been untouchable. If it were a deal in which another cryptid had taken advantage of you, I could provide resources to assist, but…” 

“I know,” Pidge says, and she sounds exhausted. “I know there’s probably not anything you could do. I know it was a dumb decision. But I had to do it. I  _ had  _ to.”

“I get it,” Lance says, surprisingly subdued. “I didn’t really know this crossroads was a thing, or I might have done the same.”

“Get that thought out of your head right now, Lance,” Shiro says warningly. “The crossroads claim to make fair trades, but they  _ never  _ play fair. Not the way you’d want.” 

He gestures to Pidge. “But I think that might be ground to stand on. Something about Pidge’s request, and what she got for it, just seems fishy. Pidge asked for help finding her family, and they sent her to me. I don’t know anything about her family. Even with some very to-the-letter interpretations of the request, that just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“You think the crossroads could be fought on that?” Coran asks, disbelieving. “Like a breach of contract?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the crossroads beyond the basic stories,” Shiro admits, with a frustrated sigh. “That’s where I figured Allura could help, though. Maybe she can’t do anything about the crossroads—but she knows a lot of people. Maybe there’s an expert out there who  _ does  _ that we can talk to.”

Allura perks up at that immediately, wings ruffling in excitement. “That  _ is  _ a possibility. There are many researches in the cryptid community who might be able to provide information. Coran, if you could bring me some of the listings—”

“There is no need, Lion Goddess!” one of the mice of her own congregation, dyed almost completely blue, chants. “If there is urgency, we can recite the Book of Many Names of Knowledge to you!”

Allura smiles down graciously at the mouse, who preens under her gaze proudly. “Very well,” she agrees. “Then we require the names of any member of the cryptid community who has knowledge of magic and the crossroads.”

“Maybe other planes of existence, too,” Pidge adds. The mouse eyes her with a little cocked head, and she adds hastily, “Er...please. It’s just that, when I made the deal, I think I sort of got, I don’t know. Shifted. To another plane of existence. Like, the crossroads isn’t here, it’s somewhere else. So anyone who knows about other worlds would be good.”

“Let it be so,” Allura agrees, with enough royal poise that the mice all give a little “ _ Hail!”  _ of excitement.

Several of the mice, in varying colors for the various catechisms, convene together to discuss amongst themselves for a moment. Then the little spokes-mouse in blue returns to Allura’s side, and says proudly, “There are five scholars in total in the Book of Many Names of Knowledge. Four contain only partial information, with knowledge in only some of these categories. Only one contains the full breadth of knowledge in as much detail as the Lion Goddess requests: the One of Many Worlds and Much Luck.” 

“Which in English, iiiis…” Lance drawls, with a raised eyebrow.

“He is the one you refer to most commonly as ‘Slav,’ High Priest of Many Forms and Many Feelings,” the mouse says politely, with a neat bow to Lance.

Shiro groans. “Aw,  _ hell.”  _

“What? What does that mean?” Pidge asks, both worried and alarmed. “Is he a bad guy? Does he not like us? Is he dead?”

“No to all three, but sometimes I wish the last one was true,” Shiro mutters. He’s sworn to himself to never take a cryptid life again for a reason outside of self defense, or protection of the innocent. Slav makes him...question that oath, sometimes. 

“I don’t get it,” Hunk says. “What’s the deal with this guy? I don’t remember meeting him before.”

“I do,” Lance says. “He’s...weird. Really,  _ really  _ weird. Like, the crazy kind of weird.”

“I forgot you came with me on that mission,” Shiro says. It had been one of Lance’s first, though, now that he thinks about it. Keith hadn’t been able to attend, since the situation had come up during the day, and Shiro didn’t have any other backup at the time.

“Regardless of his... _ eccentricities,”  _ Allura says delicately, “the fact remains that the mice are right. Slav  _ is  _ probably the best candidate to answer your questions, and if anyone can come up with alternate solutions to seemingly impossible problems, it will be him.”

“Assuming we can find him,” Shiro says with a sigh.

“Find him? What, you don’t have his address or something?” Pidge asks, bewildered, as she turns to look at the mice.

“The One of Many Worlds and Much Luck always moves,” the mouse reports. “We remember all of his old residences, if we are told of them. We cannot know his new ones.” 

“Which means…?” Hunk asks, frowning.

“It means he’s paranoid as hell, and never stays in place for too long,” Shiro groans. “And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s not entirely unjustified. Lance and I had to rescue him after he was kidnapped once, because a snake cult wanted to torture him for information on certain kinds of spells and old magic languages.”

_ “Super crazy,”  _ Lance repeats. 

Pidge’s jaw drops. “Is this guy well known? Maybe  _ he  _ spoke with my father, if he’s supposed to be an expert on magic!”

“You can ask him, but I can’t guarantee he’ll give you a straight answer,” Shiro says. “Slav is...complicated. And first, we have to find him, before we can ask him anything. Do we have any leads?” 

“I have his last forwarding address,” Allura says. “He always leaves it with us, since he expects you to rescue him if he ends up in danger. But it’s a PO Box, so it won’t help you find his current living residence.”

“He leaves messages regularly,” Coran adds. “If he doesn’t leave some kind of notification once a week, we’re to assume he’s been kidnapped.” He sighs. “But he  _ always  _ leaves them in code. Or at least, I think it’s code. Difficult to tell, with him…”

“I could help with that,” Pidge offers. “I love a good cypher.”

“Could be a fun puzzle,” Hunk agrees, eyes brightening. “I’m in. While we’re at it, Pidge, you gotta tell me what tricks you used to hack airport security so fast.”

Pidge cheers up immediately. “Sure! Are you a coder?”

“Engineer,” Hunk says. “More hardware than software, but I know my way around a computer. I definitely couldn’t hack anything that fast, though, and with a dinky laptop like that.”

“That’s perfect, though! If I get to upgrade this place’s digital security I could definitely use the feedback from a good hardware expert. Do you know...”

“I’m glad he has somebody to talk Smart People with,” Lance says dryly, as the two of them go off on a long-winded ramble with way more technical words than Shiro can identify. 

“Agreed,” Shiro says, although he watches the two chattering away fondly. Hunk is a great friend, but he’s also very smart in ways the rest of them really can’t keep up with. Shiro doesn’t mind listening to Hunk ramble on for minutes at a time about his classwork or computers or the latest technological development, but it  _ is  _ nice that he finally has somebody who actually understands and can appreciate it. 

Assuming Pidge, and the rest of them, live through this, the bogeyman ought to fit right in.

“Alright,” Shiro says, clapping once to gain the attention of the techno-babbling cryptids. “Here’s the plan, then. Hunk and Pidge, start trying to figure out where Slav is at. Allura, Lance, keep spreading word to the community and keep track of any sightings for Sanda, if there are any. Try talking to the mice, too—see if they know any lore we don’t already about the crossroads while we’re waiting on Slav.  _ Nobody  _ leaves to go find him until we’re sure we’re in the clear from Sanda, clear?”

“I’d be  _ happy  _ to help Allura with the community,” Lance says, offering what is probably supposed to be a flirtatious smile, but mostly just looks goofy. Allura rolls her eyes, and gives Shiro an annoyed look. Shiro shrugs, as if to say,  _ what do you want me to do about him?  _

“And what will you be doing?” Allura asks, as Shiro rises from his chair and heads for the door.

“I’ve got another lead to follow up on for this,” Shiro says. “Slav might take a while to find, and I want to get a measure of our opponent now, so I’m going to do a little extra research.”

“With Sanda out there, you shouldn’t go alone,” Allura says, frowning. 

“I could go with you,” Lance says, although he looks a little put out at having to go up against the threat of an actual Covenant agent, instead of spending time with Allura.

Shiro shakes his head. “No. Not a good idea. You’re in danger just by virtue of existing. The Covenant don’t know much about chupacabra, but if Sanda even thinks for a second you’re not human, she will not hesitate to try and kill you.”

“Then I can accompany you,” Coran says. “I’m completely human, and she doesn’t know me. I might be getting on in years, but I’m not a bad hand with a gun or a knife.”

Shiro knows it. Coran doesn’t go on missions often, but he’s very reliable when he does. 

Still, it’s not an option now, and Shiro shakes his head again. “It’s because she doesn’t know you that you can’t afford to be spotted, Coran. We need you as an ace up our sleeve if things get nasty, and we need someone who can move freely around the city. If Sanda  _ does  _ spot me, anyone with me is going to be implicated, and you’re too strongly linked to Allura—that’s how  _ I  _ found out who she was. It’ll put the both of you in danger.”

Coran crosses his arms, but nods grudgingly in acceptance after a moment. “I suppose that’s fair. But is it smart to go on your own?”

“I have a better shot than any of you of dodging Sanda,” Shiro says. “I know how the Covenant works, and how she operates. Hell, she helped train me. I’ll be fine, and I can move quicker without any of you with me.” 

“I don’t like it, but very well. Just be careful,” Allura orders. 

“I promise,” Shiro says. “Give me a few hours. I don’t know how long this will take, but I should be back by dark. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t get stabbed by the crazy lady!” Hunk yells after him, before he turns back to Pidge, already deep in the technical discussion again.

Extricating himself from his personal congregation of Aeslin mice takes another ten minutes in and of itself, but eventually, Shiro is able to reach the elevator alone. He sighs in relief as the doors click neatly shut and he begins his descent. 

He hadn’t been entirely truthful about his lead. He certainly intends to do his research on the crossroads, but he’d left how he intended to do that deliberately vague. He isn’t going back to his apartment for the Covenant field journals and notes. He had a different form of research in mind, and that’s why it’s imperative that he go alone—so no one can talk him out of it. 

He’s very lucky it’s still daytime. Of all of them, Keith knows him the best. He never would have let Shiro walk out that door unaccompanied, not without getting answers out of him, rather than making assumptions. Thankfully, Keith is still deep in a sun coma, and will be for another five hours minimum. 

Shiro still doesn’t have his car, but that’s not too much of a hassle. He takes the nearest bus and heads across town. What he needs is technically everywhere, all over the city, but he has a very  _ specific  _ version in mind for a number of reasons. For one thing, his destination is on the other side of the city, far away from his own apartment, Allura’s penthouse, Garrison U, and any other place frequented by his friends. It’s a primarily human-dominated area, on the off chance that Sanda does manage to catch his trail—she won’t find a cryptid neighborhood ready for the slaughter.

This particular intersection is also known for its accidents. Every year, there’s at least a dozen nasty pileups, and almost as many deaths. Death isn’t necessarily a  _ requirement,  _ for what he’s about to do, but it certainly can’t hurt. The most infamous pathways in myths and legends always seem to be near hanging trees, or places of great tragedy. Violent deaths, ghosts, and unresolved issues have a way of tainting a place with a certain kind of energy, and it should make it all the more appealing. 

Shiro settles himself neatly on a bench outside of a convenience store, watching the cars whiz past, playing chicken with the red lights. It’s no wonder there are so many accidents here. He checks the time—four pm, now—and takes a deep breath.

_ Do I definitely want to do this?  _ he asks himself. 

He doesn’t  _ want  _ to, but he definitely  _ needs  _ to. Something in his gut tells him Pidge’s story stinks, and not because of her. Slav’s input on the technicalities will help, but Shiro needs to see his opponent with his own eyes, get the measure of him with his own instincts. He needs to know what he’s facing. 

He needs to see it personally. 

_ Don’t follow through, and it should be fine, _ he thinks. He  _ hopes.  _

He closes his eyes, takes one last deep breath, and says out loud in a firm, clear voice, “I want to make a deal.”

Silence. He opens his eyes.

The world is still.  _ Completely  _ still, frozen in time, like someone had put the world on ‘pause.’ People are stuck mid-stride, a dog hovers in midair where it leapt over a grate, a sports car stands still in the middle of an intersection. There’s no sound, there’s no scent, there’s no feeling of movement or wind or life anywhere. 

The air gleams as the world is suffused with a golden light. The buildings and paved roads are bathed in a steadily brightening wash of orange-gold, like a beautiful sunset, even though his watch tells him it’s still only four in the afternoon. Something about it feels uncanny, out of place; this is a rustic, rural sunset that doesn’t belong in a fast-paced cityscape. The sun shouldn’t even be able to reach these buildings at those angles, not with dozens of other skyscrapers in the way. 

As if the world hears his thoughts, there suddenly isn’t a city anymore. Oh, he can still see the buildings, the faint outlines of cars and parking garages and park benches, the silhouette of the Seven-Eleven sign over on the corner. 

But all of it is overlaid with cornfields—cornfields that stretch for miles and miles in every direction around him, as far as the eye can see. The corn  _ looks  _ solid, realistic, like he could reach out and touch it and feel the rough texture of the husks and stringy corn silk. Everything is picturesque, like on a postcard. And yet something about it screams of  _ danger,  _ and he knows instinctively that going into those fields will mean death or worse. 

He wonders, briefly, if all those horror movies that take place in those huge stretches of cornfields had been inspired by this place. Had the directors made deals? Had they seen this place, or tried to capture it in film? If they had, they’d only shown a tiny fraction of the foreboding miasma looming in this place. Shiro has never felt so exposed, or so alone. 

There’s only one safe place in the middle of the fields, and that’s an old country road that stretches on for miles ahead and behind him. Somehow he’s standing in the middle of the road—but not in the middle of the  _ real  _ road, the road in Garrison City he’s still next to and can just barely see through the overlay of the corn. He carefully keeps his distance from the crops on either side of him. 

His senses are only just starting to come to grips with the unusual sensation of existing in not one, but two worlds simultaneously, when for the first time since he’d spoken, he sees movement.

Someone steps out of the crowds of people in the faint reality of Garrison City, and out of thin air onto the country road in this overlayed world. She looks human, a little taller than average for a woman, with tanned skin and a reserved expression. Her dark brown hair is cut short into a bob, held back with several hairpins, but her bangs slip free on the left side, framing her face. She’s dressed simply and practically in jeans, a plain t-shirt, and serviceable walking boots. 

She approaches him without concern for the strange new surroundings they’re in, following the country road unerringly. Shiro’s tempted to put his hands on one of his knives, or better yet, one of his hidden firearms, but he restrains himself and lets her come closer. He’d literally asked for this. If he starts shooting now, he doubts things would go over well for him. 

That, and he’s pretty sure she won’t be able to kill him. Not yet. Not until the crossroads have a chance to try and get something out of him.

The woman stops a polite distance away, close enough to hold a conversation, far enough to not intrude on his personal space. Now that she’s closer, he estimates she’s in her early to mid twenties. Shiro wouldn’t have looked at her twice if he’d seen her on the streets of Garrison; she looks completely ordinary.

Then she looks him in the eyes, and all he can see are miles and miles of open, empty roads, running on endlessly and forever, trapped inside her irises.

He maintains his composure admirably, all things considered. But he can’t help but feel his heart skip a beat from nervousness anyway. This woman might have been human once, but if she was, that was a long time ago. 

Now, she’s a crossroads ghost.

Most humans know about ghosts, and ghosts are by far the type of cryptid humans believe in the most, even if they’ll swear up and down Bigfeet are hoaxes and there are no monsters in the closet. But even the believers don’t necessarily know the intricacies of the afterlife...or that ghosts come in more than one flavor.

Noah, the spirit of the child Shiro had helped move on just a few days ago, had been a common poltergeist. They died, most likely traumatically, and they didn’t understand they were dead. They haunted the living world because they hadn’t been given what they needed to move on, and because their new instincts told them to. They were tragic, but once you knew what you were dealing with, they weren’t particularly complicated and could be handled with a few kind words or, in the extreme, an exorcism. 

But there were other kinds of ghosts, too, ones that were far more powerful and operated by their own rules. Ghosts that stayed bound to locations, or ideals, or people. Shiro knows maybe a dozen kinds, and he’s sure there are hundreds more where the dead go. While he’s spoken to a few restless dead since fleeing the Covenant who were quite friendly, all of them are hesitant to talk about anything pertaining to the worlds of the dead. 

Road ghosts are some of the ones he’s most familiar with. They racked up their own kind of power in distance, could assume solid forms under the right circumstances, and were some of the most commonly seen varieties in the world of the living. Hitchhiking ghosts, homecomers, phantom riders and white ladies were all bound to the road, and they were the stuff of old folk tales and urban legends, which had far more truth to them than anyone cared to admit.

And then there were the crossroads ghosts, the most powerful and frightening of all spirits bound to the road—within reason.

Crossroads ghosts worked for the crossroads, serving as intermediaries between desperate people willing to come to them and whatever was on the other side that offered the deals. They were the brokers of bargains, always hunting for the latest debtor for the force they served. 

Being associated with such a force meant they had a great deal of power and potential at their fingertips, when they needed to, as long as it served their purpose in turn. They could appear completely human and walk among the living easily, and interact with solid material as though they still lived and breathed. Most frightening of all, they were the only type of ghost that could force its way past even the most powerful of spirit wards and protection spells—as long as a deal had been called for on the other side. Nothing would come between them, the deal, and the force they served.

The only thing they couldn’t disguise were their eyes. Even when they walked among the living, whispering of easy solutions to difficult situations, they couldn’t hide the thousands of miles of endless road trapped in their eyes. It would unnerve just as many potential victims as the ones attracted to the idea of a quick fix for a desperate situation. It didn’t seem to matter to the crossroads, in the end; even with more than one person frightened away from the prospect of a bargain, there were always more who would be just desperate enough to deal regardless. 

The Covenant had always hated the crossroads. Shiro had listened to countless lectures about how to identify crossroads ghosts, how to fight them, how to avoid them, and most importantly to never, ever go to the crossroads himself. The Covenant taught its agents to sooner slit their own throats, rather than go to the crossroads. The Covenant would love more than anything to destroy it and wipe its unnatural cruelty from the face of the Earth, but some things were too big for even them. 

And now here Shiro was, facing down a crossroads ghost with no intention of fighting her, ready to brush with insanity just to catch a glimpse of the thing he was  _ really  _ dealing with. 

“You called?” the crossroads ghost asks. Her voice is polite and unerringly professional, but somehow cold and calculated all the same. She’s no friend of his, and he knows that from the onset.

“I did,” Shiro says. “I’d like to make a deal. Before that, I’d like to know who I’m dealing  _ with.  _ Do you have a name?”

Her cold, expressionless stare flickers just for a moment, as her lips quirk in the tiniest smile before it disappears. It’s not a friendly smile. “Smart of you to ask. Most people don’t. My name is Acxa.”

“Acxa,” Shiro repeats carefully. When dealing with otherworldly entities, it’s always a good idea to catch a name, if you can. Names don’t hold quite as much power as some of the old folk tales would imply, and not necessarily in the  _ way  _ they imply, but they do still hold power. 

She nods. “And as for you, Takashi Shirogane—you stand before the crossroads, where all things are possible, where all things are forbidden. What is your purpose here?”

A shiver runs down Shiro’s spine at that. Oh, yes, true names  _ definitely  _ hold power. There’s no spell involved here, but the fact that she knows exactly who he is without a second’s hesitation is enough to make his blood run cold. 

People aren’t supposed to know him. People aren’t supposed to know  _ about  _ him. He can’t be this recognizable so easily. Anyone could find him that way.

But he suppresses his shudder, and looks her firmly in the eyes, down their miles and miles of endless road. “I believe that is between me and whomever you serve.”

“I can’t advocate for you if I don’t know what you’re asking for,” Acxa says. 

“I understand that,” Shiro says. “I’ll take the risk, anyway.” 

It isn’t as though Acxa would truly ‘advocate’ for him to begin with. The crossroads ghosts are supposed to broker deals between the desperate and whatever entity the crossroads consists of, gaining them the best possible deal. But crossroads ghosts  _ serve  _ the crossroads. There’s always going to be bias...and based on the hundreds of years of deals to the letter, if not in spirit, she definitely would give her boss the better end of the deal over Shiro. 

Besides, Shiro’s not truly intending to  _ make  _ a deal here. He wants to see whoever or  _ what _ ever she serves. He has to see what he’s fighting to know how best to kill it. 

She frowns, and her professionalism breaks a little in the face of unrelenting sternness. Her hair, swept neatly back in its pins, starts to raise, feathering around her in a short halo. Her skin begins glowing faintly—the same rustic golden as the unnatural sun above. 

“Let me rephrase,” she says curtly. Her tone is that of a saleswoman behind a retail counter, explaining the rules to a dense customer for the hundredth time. “You will state your purpose, or you won’t be speaking with my master about a deal.” 

Shiro forces himself to not take a reflexive step back, or to reach for the nearest knife to stab her with. It wouldn’t do him any good anyway—his blades for the day weren’t chosen with ghosts in mind, and they aren’t consecrated in purified salts or holy water. She’s already dead. He can’t kill her again, not in her own territory.

He forces himself to take a deep breath instead, and remain as outwardly calm as possible.  _ She’s a bouncer,  _ he realizes.  _ The crossroads won’t just let anybody in. And if she’s screening potential victims, that means sometimes they expect people who  _ aren’t  _ victims. That means some people can be threats.  _

It’s a slightly reassuring thought. The crossroads aren’t completely invulnerable, as much as they’d like people to think so. Anyone coming to them desperate for a miracle wouldn’t be looking for cracks in the defenses; they would only see what they needed, and what the crossroads wanted them to see. But Shiro doesn’t  _ need.  _ He can see things those people wouldn’t.

He might not  _ truly  _ need, but he does have to look like he does. Acxa’s glow is getting more vibrant, and the miles of road in her eyes flash faster and faster as he stares her down. She’s clearly dedicated to her job; she won’t wait around forever. And the more the seconds tick by, the more that dark miasma around them seems to coalesce, and the corn seems to grow taller and taller, looming and ominous.

So he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “There’s a Covenant agent in town. I need a way to get rid of her, without drawing more Covenant agents here.”

Acxa’s glowing doesn’t stop, and her hair continues to fan about her head from the rush of power flowing through her. But the dark, heavy presence pressing closer pulls back, and the cornfields around them seem to shrink. Shiro breathes out a sigh of relief, and only realizes then that he’d been holding his breath from the moment he’d finished speaking.

The crossroads ghost considers his words for a moment, and watches him searchingly. It’s hard to tell precisely where she’s looking, with her strange eyes. But even so it’s not hard to believe she’s boring into his soul, flaying it back and laying it bare to search him for the truth. Only his studies tell him otherwise—he knows she can’t really read his mind. Countless others before him probably didn’t. 

He’s beginning to understand where some of the stories come from.

“Alright,” Acxa says, after a long moment. “That is an acceptable request. I will broker the deal for a solution to the presence of Ellen Sanda, in exchange for a price of my master’s choosing. Come with me.” 

She turns on her heel, and begins walking down the long country road that leads into the depths of the corn. She glances over her shoulder once, to assure herself that he’s following, and as she does Shiro swears he sees something in her strange eyes. It’s gone in a flash, smoothed over with cold professionalism, but that tiny microexpression said all too clearly,  _ you poor damn fool.  _

Shiro sets his jaw, and steps after her.

Shiro’s not sure how long they walk for. It feels like a long time, and individual corn stalks pass him by as he trails after her up the road, but there aren’t any landmarks to judge distance by. What he  _ can  _ tell is that the longer they walk, the more solid the fields seem to become. It takes work to see through the mask of corn and rustic sun to the underlying streets of Garrison, and soon he can’t see it at all. The scent of the fields grows stronger, and the sun beats down harder, hot but not uncomfortable.

Pidge had said she was taken to another world when she made her deal. Shiro’s beginning to understand what she means.

But some things do change eventually. The road doesn’t seem to grow any wider, but unexpectedly there are other people on it, and somehow it spans far enough across to accomodate all of them. 

Acxa is front and center still, but three other women appear around her. Shiro’s not sure if they come out of the corn or thin air—he blinks, and suddenly they’re there—but he knows immediately these three are crossroads ghosts as well. 

One is large and heavily muscled, with square features, and angry scowl, and wearing old army fatigues and boots. One is lean and smiling, with a high, long ponytail and wearing the latest fashion trends, and yet despite her peppy appearance there’s something inherently predatory about her. The last is tall, composed, and silent, wearing jeans and a dark pulled up hoodie that does nothing to conceal her strangely clouded eyes. 

All of them have the same, distinct eyes with thousands of miles of roads trapped within, even in the one in the hoodie that appears to be otherwise blind. All of them immediately focus on Shiro, the moment he’s in range.

_ “Oooh,”  _ the high-ponytail one says, smiling brightly, as she leans forward to get a better look at Shiro. He immediately takes a step back, and fights the impulse to put a knife in her neck. “Look what Acxa’s brought! It’s a  _ Covenant  _ man!” 

“I don’t like it,” the largest, scowling ghost says. “I say we kill him and dump his body in the corn. Nobody will find him in the living world.” 

The blind crossroads ghost says nothing at all. But she does begin to pace around Shiro, observing him in some other way he’s sure he can’t comprehend, circling around to his back. 

“You’ll find I don’t go down easy,” Shiro says coldly, and this time he does let his hands stray to a few of his concealed weapons, ready to draw guns or knives as needed. He definitely can’t kill them in their own territory, but he might be able to hold them off long enough to escape. He  _ definitely  _ doesn’t like the direction this has taken, or having even one of them at his unprotected back. 

“I came in good faith for a bargain,” he adds, as the ghosts tense up, watching him warily. “Is this how the crossroads treats potential debtors? I’m amazed you stay in business.”

“Enough,” Acxa barks, stepping between Shiro and the other crossroads ghosts. “Zethrid, we aren’t killing him, not unless he gives us cause to do so.” The warning look she shoots Shiro is more than enough to make it clear that attempting to stab any of them certainly counts as ‘cause to do so.’ “Narti, return to your position. Ezor, give the man space to breathe.”

_ “Breathing,”  _ high-ponytail—Ezor, apparently—says, with a nostalgic sigh. “I remember that.” But she does, thankfully, take a few steps backward out of Shiro’s personal space, lurking at the edges of the road and the corn.

The large one, Zethrid, scoffs. “Fine,” she says, after a moment. “But I still don’t like it. Nothing good comes from dealing with Covenant.”

“I’m ex-Covenant,” Shiro says, almost out of habit. He starts a little as the last of them, Narti, paces past him to the rest of them. She’d been almost perfectly silent. Probably not impossible, for a ghost, but he definitely will need to keep an eye out for that in the future.

All of these crossroads ghosts are likely to become enemies, after all.

“Not seeing the difference,” Zethrid snaps. 

“Then you’re not looking properly,” Acxa says, as she turns around in front of her companions to face Shiro. “Our master appreciates what our potential client represents far better than you do.”

Shiro frowns. That smacks of meaning something far deeper, like she knows more about Shiro than she’s letting on. Or maybe like she’s talking in code to her companions. Whatever the case, Shiro has a sudden, sinking feeling about being here.

_ I need to get out as soon as possible,  _ he warns himself. 

But before he can even consider calmly backing himself out, Acxa speaks again. “Takashi Shirogane,” she intones, and her voice takes on a level of weight and power that it hadn’t before, arguing with her companions, “You stand before the crossroads, requesting the interference of my master against one Ellen Sanda, in exchange for payment of my master’s choosing. Is this accurate?”

Shiro’s eyes narrow, and he glances around at the four of them, suddenly wary. There’s suddenly a lot more formality here, and all four of them are glowing with that same golden, rustic glow now. All four watch him with anticipation, although only Acxa seems to be presiding over the events. This is all  _ far  _ too serious, and Shiro has an instinctive understanding that anything he says from this point on can and  _ will  _ be used and twisted in the crossroad’s favor if he gives it half a chance.

“I haven’t agreed to anything, yet,” he says cautiously.

_ “All formalities, I’m afraid,”  _ a new voice says.  _ “You must forgive my employee. She is rather dedicated to tradition.” _

Shiro jumps despite himself, and immediately has a pair of knives in his hands as he whips around, looking for the source of the voice. He doesn’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean anything. There’s a lot of corn all around him, and anyone could be hiding within.

What they said, though.  _ My employee... _ the voice can belong to no one but the crossroads entity, whoever or  _ what _ ever they are. The fact that they’re near, the fact that they’re so easily hidden, the fact that they’re watching and listening, is enough to send chills down Shiro’s spine.

The crossroads ghosts tense again as Shiro draws his weapons, and look ready to attack. Before they can take a step, the voice says,  _ “Be still,”  _ and the ghosts do. Literally. None of them move so much as a muscle or blink. None of them strike him either, or attempt to dump his body in the corn. 

Shiro swallows. The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. It’s in the air and in the dirty country road. It’s in the spaces between the corn stalks, and it  _ is  _ the corn, and it’s the dark miasma that surrounds the fields. It is this place, and this concept, and yet it’s alive, and it’s sentient. 

They aren’t a demon or the fey or a ghost or anything else any of the stories have ever suggested the dealer at the crossroads could be. They’re a  _ force.  _ And suddenly, Shiro feels very foolish for having come here. How does one kill a force of nature?

You can’t. You can hunker down, you can hide, you can play it safe, but in the end all you can do is wait, and hope it doesn’t kill you. And now, all Shiro can do is play this out, and hopes he escapes alive.

_ Remember the screening,  _ he reminds himself desperately.  _ They wanted to keep you out. The ghosts are nervous because you’re ex-Covenant. Something about you can be a threat. It’s not as hopeless as it looks.  _

Logically, it’s sound reasoning. That doesn’t stop his heart from hammering. Logic doesn’t feel like much, in the presence of that voice that is everywhere at once, that has too much power, that knows far, far too much.

It’s terrifying. 

But Shiro has spent his whole life learning how to master his fear in the face of things that are inherently bigger, stronger, smarter, or have better abilities than he ever will. So although his heart thuds painfully in his chest, and every primate instinct he has tells him to run gibbering as far away as he can, he doesn’t. He slips his knives back into their concealed locations, and says curtly, “Am I addressing the master of these ghosts, now?”

He swears he can feel a dark sort of amusement from the world around him, like this infinitely terrible being finds his trifling question childish and amusing.  _ “You are.”  _

“And am I to understand you’re ultimately the one I’ll be bargaining with?”

More dark amusement.  _ “That is correct.”  _

“Then it would be nice if there was a face and a name to work with.” 

Acxa scowls at him, and takes an angry step forward. “You dare speak to the master of the crossroads? And with such impertinence?” 

_ “Now, now, Acxa,”  _ the world-voice drawls. They don’t sound offended; Shiro suspects his questions are entertaining them, if nothing else.  _ “Let the man speak. He is, after all, a valued customer.”  _

Shiro can’t help but feel like he’s being toyed with. But Acxa takes a grudging step back, and the other crossroads ghosts watch him expectantly. 

So he continues, waving his arms around at the whole world for emphasis. “The fact that you seem to be  _ everywhere  _ is very impressive, I won’t lie. But it’s a little hard to comprehend. I’m just a human. We’re not built for this. We’re built for face to face interaction, eye contact, names to call each other by. It’s how the oldest trade deals and agreements have always worked. If I can’t look who I’m dealing with in the eye, I can’t believe I’m dealing fairly with anyone.” 

He chooses his words carefully. Everything is a statement, and observation—not a request. A request could be taken too literally here. Shiro would hate to be on the hook for payment over something as trivial as this.

_ “You’re a traditionalist in your own right, I see,”  _ the voice says.  _ “If an illusion of comprehension entices you to bargain, then I suppose I can play along for a little while.”  _

A figure steps out of the air in front of Acxa and the others. The figure is humanoid and bipedal, and coded male, but that’s about the end of his similarities to a human. He’s tall, slightly taller than Shiro, and has a thin but muscular frame. A narrow face, pointed ears, long white hair, and delicate features remind Shiro an elf from one of the  _ Lord of the Rings  _ movies, but his skin is purple, and there are strange glowing markings under his eyes. His clothing looks outlandish and not at all from any culture Shiro is aware of on Earth. Shiro can’t determine if it’s formal dress or armor or possibly a combination of both, but it’s all in dark colors with accents of orange and deep blue that both contrast and complement the rustic golds and browns of the world surprisingly well. 

Strangest of all are his eyes. Where the whites would be on a human, his eyes are a deep yellow. Like his followers, there are thousands of miles of roadways within his irises, always trapped in the eternal night of their midnight blue color. 

He smiles, and when he does, he displays pointed fangs. They aren’t as long as Keith’s, but they don’t need to be. His smile is anything but pleasant, and deeply predatory. This creature is undoubtedly a hunter, and Shiro has no idea what it is he hunts for.

“Will this suffice?” he asks, waving a gloved hand at himself. His voice no longer seems to come from everything around them and everything in between. Now it comes from his own throat, with a sophisticated, cultured accent that suggests he speaks many languages. 

He looks Shiro dead in the eye, as if daring him to say otherwise, still smiling that dangerous smile. Shiro recognizes the challenge for exactly what it is. This being had acknowledged his unspoken, informal request to assume a shape to speak to, but he deliberately hadn’t taken the form of a human. He hadn’t even chosen the form of a known cryptid, or anything else familiar. He’d become something else entirely, skirting the edges of ‘mortal comprehension’ while toying with the boundaries of reality, just barely meeting the requirements of the request. And everything about this form is designed to unsettle Shiro, from his height to his teeth to his otherworldly clothing. 

It’s as if, without words, he’s made it clear just who has control in this situation.  _ I’m playing along with your game because I can, and because I choose to,  _ are the unspoken words.  _ But that doesn’t mean you are in charge, and I control everything about this encounter. I’m only bothering at all so I don’t break your pathetic human mind in half while trying to drain every last drop of anything useful out of you.  _

The message is read loud and clear. “Yes,” Shiro answers. “Thank you.” 

The figure’s fanged smile grows more knowing. He’s aware that Shiro knows what game they’re playing. “Very good,” he says, after a moment. “For the duration of our dealings, you may refer to me as ‘Lotor,’ if you require a name. Welcome to Oriande. I will be your host this afternoon.”

_ Oriande.  _ Shiro’s never heard the word before, but he immediately commits it to memory. He does the same for ‘Lotor,’ although he doubts he’ll gain anything from that. It’s probably not even a real name; a force of nature has no need for one. He’d probably chosen a collection of sounds he’d preferred just to give the pathetic mortal that had come to deal with him some way to comprehend interacting with him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lotor,” Shiro says automatically.

Lotor chuckles, and most of his ghost attendants smirk or snicker behind them. They don’t need to be omniscient to know the lie for what it is. They don’t seem to particularly care, either.

“Now that we’ve established good customer relations,” Lotor says, smirk disappearing, “I believe it’s time to talk business. You wanted to bargain. Acxa?”

“The bargain is for a solution to the problem of Ellen Sanda, Covenant operative, within the bounds of Garrison City,” Acxa states dutifully, coming to step up next to her master. 

“A problem I can easily deal with,” Lotor says smoothly. His expression is confident but reassuring, suddenly the face of a trustworthy leader ready and willing to fight for anything Shiro requires or desires. He feels  _ believable,  _ not like the demon the crossroads stories tell of. Like maybe he  _ would  _ come through on his bargain. 

_ But those bargains never work right,  _ Shiro reminds himself sharply.  _ Think of poor Pidge. Lotor did that to her. Be careful.  _

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Shiro says again, cautious.

The crossroads ghosts exchange annoyed glances, and Zethrid scoffs. Acxa finally says, “You may speak freely in terms of discussing the deal. Until you and my master have shaken on the bargain, no words are binding.”

Shiro gives Lotor a suspicious look. The entity sighs, shakes his head in amusement and exasperation, and says, “It is so. There’s no need to be so cagey, or to think so little of me. I am here to help you, after all.”

Pissing off the crossroads entity is probably not the smartest idea, so Shiro says, “Sorry. It’s just that your reputation is a little...less helpful. You can understand my caution.”

“This is hardly a zero sum game,” Lotor says. “I have always resented that reputation. Two parties are required for a bargain, and yet  _ I  _ am the only one blamed for them. I grant requests and solve problems where no one else can—and  _ they  _ are the ones that choose to come to  _ me.  _ What they do with their results, or how they squander their gifts, is something I cannot control.” 

He sounds so put upon and beleaguered, a caring individual tirelessly giving of himself to save and protect others, and being dragged through the mud for his selfless actions. His features seem to grow subtly softer, his height fractionally less looming, his teeth less sharp and dangerous. 

He’s very good, and very good at altering perceptions of himself, down to his illusory appearance. Shiro  _ almost  _ believes it. 

Almost. Except that for all his fine acting, for all his ability to manipulate the way he’s viewed, there’s still a looming miasma of darkness in the cornfields around them. His ghostly attendants are still arrayed out behind him like soldiers ready to pounce, and they still watch with predatory, anticipating expressions. 

It’s a very good trick. But it’s all just that: a trick.

Lotor seems to catch on that he’s pushing that approach a little too hard. He backpedals smoothly, expertly, and says instead, “Caution won’t get you what you want, or what you need. Let’s not waste your time. Speak freely—dealing with Ellen Sanda  _ is  _ your request, yes?”

“Yes,” Shiro says slowly. “She’s in Garrison City. I need her gone.  _ Not  _ just from the city,” he adds warningly, giving Acxa a cool look. He’d caught that little specific detail in her announcement. It doesn’t matter in the end, but he has to at least look like he’s playing this straight. “From the country. Without killing her or bringing other Covenant agents to us.”

“An easy enough problem for me to solve,” Lotor says. “Though, by my count, I hear  _ two  _ requested tasks. A problem disappearing, and a new problem not being created. And without a blood price on the part of the target. That is more...complicated. More costly.”

Here it is. Nothing at the crossroads comes free. Shiro doesn’t intend to deal, and the inevitable steep price will be the chance to back out. But he’s curious what they would ask for all the same. 

“Two tasks are under negotiation,” Acxa intones. “The first: to cause the removal of one Ellen Sanda, Covenant agent, from the United States of America. The second: to prevent additional notice from the Covenant of St George upon her return. Takashi Shirogane, are you in agreement these are the tasks you ask for?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. To hell with their warning that caution isn’t needed; he still acknowledges slowly, hyper aware that he can’t truly agree to anything in this, or he’ll be in as much trouble as Pidge.

“Very well,” Acxa agrees. “And what is your asking price for such tasks, sir?”

Lotor smiles. “The man does seem to enjoy tradition. Tradition does dictate payment in blood—usually, familial blood.”

Shiro balks at that. 

It’s not unheard of for the crossroads to ask for lives as payment, and there have been dozens of stories over the years of people sacrificing family members in order to obtain their desperate wishes. He’s never understood why anyone would make such a cruel payment. He hasn’t spoken to his parents in years since he fled from the Covenant, and even now he couldn’t bear to offer up one of their lives to make Sanda disappear, even if he really  _ was  _ here to deal.

But before he can even make his objections known, Acxa speaks up. “Shirogane’s bloodlines belong to the Covenant. Taking blood payment from any of his predecessors will alert the Covenant to your intervention, sir. This would directly conflict the second task.”

“So it would,” Lotor says, waving away the issue as though it’s merely a minor oversight. “Still, it seems as though you’ve created a new little family here, Shirogane. Familial blood need not be literal. The blood of the covenant—forgive the pun—will be just as satisfactory.” His smug smile returns, showing just a hint of fangs. “Would you offer one of them as payment? The little bird, the vampire, the chupacabra, the gorgon? Perhaps the old man—he’s getting on in years. Who would miss him?”

Shiro’s stomach churns at the realization that this powerful entity knows not just him, but  _ all  _ of his friends, and would so casually ask for their lives as payment for a task. “No! No blood payments. I refuse. Absolutely not.” 

“I see,” Lotor drawls. He affects disappointment, but his eyes gleam with hunger, and Shiro has a bad feeling he’s just answered exactly the way the entity expects him to. “And do you expect my interference for free?”

“Have you anything else to offer as collateral?” Acxa asks. “Or as permanent payment? Magical ability? Information? Artifacts?” 

“No,” Shiro says, voice short. 

Lotor smiles. It isn’t friendly. “But you do have no shortage of talent. You want to talk of reputations—the reputation of your bloodline, and of you personally, is quite powerful for one so young.”

Shiro is incredulous. “You want my reputation? My skills?” He imagines sealing up his fighting skills, or the nervous awe people feel around him in a bottle, to sit on Lotor’s shelf for the end of time.

“In a manner of speaking. The price will be service. I’ll make your problem disappear from the city, without consequence, in exchange for a task to be performed later, at my discretion.” The rustic sunlight gleams off his silvery hair, and yet he seems to be shrouded in darkness, and his thousand-mile eyes glow like midnight coals in the gloom. 

Shiro swallows.

Acxa steps forward. “The deal of two requests—removal of Ellen Sanda from the United States, and preventing the Covenant of St George from discovering the reason for her return—has been set at the price of one task, to be performed at a later date at the discretion of the crossroads. The requirements of the task will be set by the crossroads and delivered by me, the advocate for Takashi Shirogane, at such a time it becomes relevant.” 

She turns to look Shiro in the eyes, and it’s so hard not to become lost on the thousands of miles of endless road in her eyes. “A task set by the crossroads cannot be refuted and can be enforced. Refusal to pay on a debt gives the crossroads the right to exact payment as they see fit. Do you accept?”

Her voice is unerringly professional as it has been since she first showed up. But there’s warning in her strange eyes, even if her words are inherently slanted towards her master. Shiro could almost swear he sees just the tiniest shake of her head  _ no.  _ But no, he has to be imagining that. Crossroads ghosts don’t cross their master. There’s no point in doing so. 

He doesn’t need even her imagined help to find the answer for that anyway. Just the thought of paying the same price Pidge had makes his blood run cold. “No. I don’t. I think that price is a little more than I can afford.”

“Surely not,” Lotor says. His voice and expression are suddenly charming again, and his smile is soft and understanding, without even the tiniest flash of fangs. “I wouldn’t ask anything of you that you aren’t already capable of.” 

“I’m capable of a lot,” Shiro says, very quietly. “That’s why it’s more than I can afford.”

Because Lotor had never wanted a blood price to begin with.  _ This  _ was what he really wanted. He’d just used the other option to herd Shiro into a corner.

Lotor wasn’t wrong about his reputation. Shiro doesn’t have a lot of skills, but what he is known for, he does very well. And most of what he’s known for is killing—and usually, killing things that are in turn very good at killing. Lotor doesn’t have to come out and say those are the skills he’s after directly. He basically already had.

And Shiro can guess why. The crossroads are a deadly, powerful force. He can  _ feel  _ that power in the air all around him, even with Lotor assuming a singular shape. There’s enough power here to level the entirety of Garrison City, and probably more besides.

But the crossroads had to operate within the bounds of certain natural laws, like any other force. If Lotor  _ could  _ level the whole city at his leisure, he wouldn’t have need of servants in the form of crossroads ghosts to entice people to him. Tasks as a method of payment wouldn’t have nearly so much value. The blood prices he had tried to talk Shiro into could be taken as he saw fit, not merely as a form of payment. Hell, he could just take  _ anything  _ he wanted from anyone, without bothering with the framework of a bargain.

The crossroads can’t kill needlessly. And neither can their ghosts. Zethrid had threatened to kill him and dump him in the corn, but that was a defensive measure in response to a supposed Covenant agent invading this place. Whatever laws they exist in clearly allow them to protect themselves. The same can’t be said for going on the offensive. 

Shiro doesn’t think they can kill or torment outside the bounds of the bargain. Which means if Lotor wants to have any effect on the real world, outside of coaxing unwitting strangers to make one-sided deals with him, he needs operatives bound to serve the crossroads in the context of a deal.

Having a Covenant-trained human on call could let him get away with too much. If Shiro did accept that payment, Lotor would own him, and Lotor is clearly smart enough to know exactly what he’s capable of. Shiro wouldn’t be able to agree to that deal in good conscience even if he really  _ was  _ legitimately here to bargain. There would just be too much at stake.

And yet, even as his moral code tells him it’s an impossible price, he finds himself  _ wanting  _ the deal anyway. He and the others had talked about getting rid of Sanda was a tall order. This would be such an easy way to get rid of her. One little, easy favor, and their problems are gone, and he never has to solve the dilemma himself. He never has to face Sanda on his own. He can avoid that terrifying proposition for another day, or months, or years if he’s lucky.

One little task. Is that so hard?

_ No,  _ a little voice hisses.  _ No. You never even planned to bargain to begin with. You wouldn’t— _

But he wants it. He  _ does.  _

That doesn’t make any sense. Shiro  _ knows  _ himself. He knows he’s better than this, and those aren’t  _ his  _ thoughts. He shakes his head, and looks around quickly, surveying his surroundings and the others. 

The corn isn’t looming any more than it already had been. Acxa is attentive and professional, awaiting his decision. Lotor watches almost lazily, hand on hip, head tilted to one side, as if waiting for the inevitable ‘yes’ like he’s no doubt received a thousand times over before. Zethrid glares at him coldly, clearly still itching to kill him and dump his body in the middle of the field of corn. Ezor watches with a dark smirk that nearly matches her master’s, like she’s waiting for the fun to play out. Narti—

Narti is staring directly at Shiro with a blank and yet strangely intense expression. And yet he’s pretty sure Narti is blind, and has no reason to stare at him like that. Not with that level of intention. Not unless she was seeing something else entirely in him.

“I would appreciate it if you would call off your servants,” Shiro says cooly, with a sharp gesture at Narti. “It seems against the spirit of the deal, to be influencing the requestor’s choices.”

Lotor’s lazy smile grows wider, sharper, showing teeth. If he’s disappointed at being found out, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he seems delighted to know Shiro had seen through one layer of deception. A good potential servant needs to be smart enough not to be duped, after all.

“My apologies,” Lotor says, perfectly polite. “My employees are... _ enthusiastic  _ about their jobs. Sometimes, they overstep their bounds in an effort to serve me.” 

_ Sure they do,  _ Shiro thinks angrily.  _ They definitely aren’t doing exactly as you instructed in a pre-defined action plan for duping poor desperate people that come for help. _

Lotor snaps his fingers, and Narti immediately drops her head, sightless gaze resting on the dirt road. The feeling of _wanting,_ that desperation to make the deal, immediately recedes. 

Shiro scowls. Some kind of compulsion, then. Narti might have been a caster in life, or maybe she’d been a succubus. Without a true body there wouldn’t be any pheromones anymore, not that those would have mattered to him to begin with. But her persuasive telepathy might have survived into the twilight. 

Whatever she is, Shiro doesn’t like the implications of those powers in the hands of a crossroads ghost attending a deal being brokered. Shiro had been able to differentiate the enforced compulsion from his own, true thoughts, but only because he knew himself, he never intended to deal to begin with, and he’d been trained. An ordinary citizen that came to the crossroads would be desperate and afraid, and already strongly considering a deal. Any second thoughts they had upon meeting Lotor—or whatever form Lotor took for them—would be easy to circumvent with a little push on their desperation and their desire. 

It’s sick. It’s twisted. It  _ feels  _ dirty and wrong. But Shiro has a feeling it's not technically illegal. Not if anything prior to the sealing of the deal can’t be held against either party, like Acxa and Lotor had said. 

_ I need to get out of here. Now.  _

He opens his mouth to say thanks, but no thanks, but Lotor cuts him off before he can. “As a token of apology, and of good faith, allow me to sweeten the deal. Perhaps a single task is a little expensive by comparison. Perhaps dealing with this Sanda is a matter of practicality, but not truly what you need. Would another deal be preferred?” 

“I don’t think that’s the case,” Shiro says curtly. 

“No?” Lotor asks. He begins to move, hands behind his back. The pose is strangely military. And yet he moves with the sinuous, preternatural grace of something inhuman, something that immediately puts Shiro’s already overwhelmed lizard-brain instincts on high alert. 

Shiro keeps perfectly still through sheer force of will as Lotor paces around him, and instead keeps his eyes focused on the crossroads ghosts. Lotor can’t hurt him without owning him through a deal as long as he doesn’t pose a threat. He’s pretty sure the ghosts can’t either, but they used to be living, and he trusts them a lot less to be so easily bound by otherworldly laws as an actual force of nature. 

“Surely there must be something,” Lotor drawls, as he circles Shiro. He has to know he’s setting Shiro’s defensive instincts haywire, because he’s smiling knowingly as he speaks. “There have to be things you’ve been wanting since you first made your escape. Perhaps improving upon the deal, ensuring you will  _ never  _ be found by the Covenant?”

Tempting. Except undoubtedly there would be a trick to it. Maybe Shiro could never be found by the Covenant, but his friends still could. Maybe it would prevent other Covenant agents who had been questioning if their teachings were right from ever finding him. “No.”

“Perhaps a different approach,” Lotor says, unperturbed by the immediate rejection. “What of eradicating the distrust towards you in your cryptid community? Even the ones who hail from your own homeland. Surely the gift of  _ acceptance  _ would be worthwhile for one little task?”

Shiro would love for the cryptid community to welcome him with open arms. Especially the yōkai, who have always hated him for his heritage and all the blood that stains the name  _ Shirogane.  _

But forcing acceptance smacks of mind control and a lack of free will, and that doesn’t sit right with Shiro. He does want to be accepted for who he is—but not at the cost of anyone else’s freedom. Nor would he want Lotor to call in his favor and have Shiro start indiscriminately murdering people who smiled trustingly at him as he slit their throats. “No.”

Lotor  _ tsks.  _ “You’re a difficult customer, Shirogane. I’m only trying to make you happy. Very well then—how about Galra?”

Despite himself, Shiro’s head snaps to his right, as Lotor circles past him. “What do you know about  _ Galra?”  _

Lotor’s eyes gleam brightly, and his fangs flash in the rustic sunset. Too late, Shiro realizes his mistake. Lotor knows he has something of value, now. Something that Shiro doesn’t just think of practically, but truly  _ wants.  _

“I know everything about Galra,” Lotor says casually, gracefully returning to his spot by his ghostly attendants and turning to face Shiro. “All the information your little mortal heart could ever desire. But it  _ is  _ an expensive bit of information. I could not sell it for a single task. Perhaps three. Would you like to renegotiate a new deal?” 

It really  _ is  _ tempting this time, without even Narti’s influence. This ‘Galra’ has been wreaking havoc in his city for months. People have died because of them, been hurt because of them, and there’s no evidence they’ll stop. And despite everything else Shiro has done, everywhere he’s looked, he hasn’t been able to find answers about them  _ anywhere.  _ He needs that information if he’s going to protect his city, his friends, from whatever the Galra have planned next.

But the price.  _ Three  _ tasks. One alone would be too much; giving Lotor unfettered access to the real world with his skills is too dangerous. Three would be deadly. 

And there’s no guaranteeing it would ever end there, either. Lotor has undoubtedly been playing this game for a long time; the crossroads exist in stories for centuries. He may have ways to extend that service, loopholes to exploit so that Shiro will never be free. Even death wouldn’t be an escape, to judge from the crossroads ghosts he has in his service.

He can’t take this deal. But  _ oh,  _ for the first time, he genuinely regrets it.

Shiro closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, all of them are watching intently. “No,” he says. “That won’t work either.”

Lotor tsks. “No blood, no favors,” he says. “What do you expect to get for nothing, Takashi Shirogane?”

“Nothing,” Shiro says. “Your prices are a little too high for me right now. I won’t expect anything in return. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get going. Sorry this didn’t work out.”

Lotor shakes his head regretfully. “As am I. Acxa?”

“The brokering of the deal is ended,” she intones formally. “No deal has been made, no gifts received, and no payments given.” And, a little less formally, “I will take you back to your world.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says. She strides past her master towards him, and as she does, the golden glow in her eyes and skin fades from her and her fellow crossroads ghosts. 

“Bye, Covenant man!” Ezor says, waving to him. “See you again sometime!”

“Hope not,” Zethrid mutters. “Good riddance.”

Shiro frowns. “I have no intention of returning. You won’t have to deal with me again.” His words are for Zethrid, but he looks straight at Lotor.

Lotor only smiles. It’s knowing, and unpleasant, and makes Shiro’s stomach churn uncomfortably. “Oh, you’ll be back,” he says, very calmly. “It’s only a matter of time now. I am very old; I can be patient. Come back to Oriande when your curiosity gets the better of you, Takashi Shirogane. I’ll be waiting.” 

Shiro swallows, but his mouth is suddenly dry. He doesn’t like the absolute certainty of that statement, the way that Lotor says it like he  _ knows,  _ just like he knows Shiro’s name or the identities of his friends. 

But before he can say anything at all, Acxa places her hand on his shoulder. And suddenly, they’re not surrounded by deep, looming cornfields anymore. Once again, they’re on the corner of the infamous Garrison intersection, standing next to the bench in front of the convenience store, with cars whizzing past and people striding by, none the wiser. 

Shiro grips the back of the bench shakily to steady himself. The transition hadn’t been disorienting, but the whole experience certainly had.

Acxa is still there, solid and human-looking as anyone else on the street. People swerve around her automatically as they walk, not giving her a second glance. 

“You have only to call if you ever want to resume your negotiation,” she tells him. “The terms of the deal may change, as time passes. My master will have the option to change his price depending upon the demand for his service provided.” 

Shiro tries to swallow again, and then says hoarsely, “I’m not coming back.”

To his surprise, Acxa actually gives him a pitying look. “If you’re smart, you won’t,” she says bluntly. “Most people aren’t. But then, you were smart enough to ask for my name. Maybe you’re different.”

Shiro blinks. Something about her words feels...different. Crossroads ghosts are  _ supposed  _ to warn people away from making deals, to advocate for the requester rather than for Lotor, but to Shiro’s knowledge they never have. Why would Acxa change her argument now? 

But she vanishes before he can ask, leaving him alone on the street.

He sits back down on the bench for a moment, shaken to his core. He should be heading back to the others right now, but he needs a minute to just...process.

His mission  _ had  _ been successful, after a sort. He knows the crossroads screens their requestors, to some degree. The ghosts had become defensive when he’d arrived, which means on some level they think he’s potentially dangerous to them. Lotor hadn’t been above trying to force him into a deal with a compulsion, which means he has abilities that are valuable to them on some level—which means they may also be dangerous to them on some level. 

There might, maybe, be a chance to help Pidge, somewhere in all that.

But the cost was heavy. He hadn’t made an actual deal, but Lotor had gotten hooks into him all the same. It’s the first time he’s heard anyone sound even remotely knowledgeable about Galra, and Shiro can’t deny he’s turning over the pros and cons in his head. 

_ Come back to Oriande when your curiosity gets the better of you, Takashi Shirogane. I’ll be waiting. _

He shudders.

His alarming experience is really the only excuse he has, for his distraction. He’s so shaken by his meeting with Lotor and his crossroads attendants that his awareness of his surroundings isn’t as high as it usually is, and his focus is completely shot. 

_ Why  _ he lacks focus hardly matters, in the end. What does matter is when he finally heaves himself off of the bench ten minutes later, still shivering a little despite the afternoon summer sun, he nearly walks smack into Ellen Sanda. 

“Takashi Shirogane,” she greets, voice cold. “What an unexpected surprise, to find you here.”


	19. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Four

“I mean, it was  _ hard  _ on them. They were turning their backs on everything they’d ever known, because they’d decided there was something that mattered more than doing what they’d been taught to do. Hell, what they’d been  _ raised  _ to do. This wasn’t a choice they made on a whim. This was everything to them.”   
—Verity Price,  _ Discount Armageddon  _

**_An infamous crossroads junction in Garrison City, starting to panic_ **

For a heart-stopping moment, all Shiro can do is freeze. 

The moment passes quickly enough, but he curses himself for his own panic and stupidity even as his shocked mind kicks into overdrive. He backpedals away from Sanda to create a few feet of distance, but he doesn’t run. If he runs, Sanda will pursue, and that will not end well.

_ What are my methods of escape?  _

There aren’t many, and they aren’t great. He’s on a public road in the middle of Garrison City, but lacking a car, it doesn’t help him much. There are some roads he could turn down, but on foot he won’t get far from Sanda. There are convenience stores and restaurants and little shops here and there, but none of them will hide him when he’s already been found. 

Maybe the only thing working in his favor is that they’re on a relatively busy road. Even as the two of them stand there, other people flow around them, indifferent. As far as anyone is concerned, he and Sanda are just two people who haven’t interacted in a while that met on a walk. It means Shiro can’t run without attracting attention, but it also means Sanda can’t attack him without drawing attention to herself. And Sanda might believe her cause is just, but she still knows better than to try and explain a righteous murder to the police with over a dozen witnesses present. 

As long as Shiro is careful not to let himself be walked off by Sanda to a back alley or in an unknown vehicle, he might just live through this encounter.

Sanda watches him with her usual stern expression, observant and wary. She’s changed her outfit since this morning, shifting from city tourist to casual citizen. She can’t get away with wearing the long military coat so common to Covenant operatives sworn to the secret and sword on active operations, which would draw too much attention in the hot July weather. But her light jacket, sturdy jeans, and thick work boots look appropriate enough on the Garrison streets, while undoubtedly allowing Sanda to conceal an absurd amount of weaponry. 

She hasn’t tried to covertly use any of that weaponry on Shiro, however. She hasn’t even closed the distance he’d made; just continues to watch him with cool seriousness. After a belated moment, Shiro realizes she’s waiting for an answer.

“Ma’am,” he says, after a moment, nodding deferentially to her like he would have six years ago in training. “It’s...a surprise to see you, as well.”

That was the understatement of the year. What was Sanda doing here? Had she been watching him for the past few minutes? Did she know anything about what he’d just been doing? 

Why the  _ hell  _ had he just sat there on the bench when he  _ knew  _ there was a Covenant agent in town? Lotor had shaken him, but it’s not the first time his work has been uncomfortable. He should have known better.

“I’m sure it is,” Sanda says. “You disappeared so unexpectedly suddenly, six years ago. Along with, I am told, a fair amount of money and expensive items from your family’s bank accounts. I wonder why that is?”

Her eyes narrow at him. Shiro swallows, but says nothing. There’s absolutely nothing he  _ can  _ say to talk himself out of this situation.

“Your family has been worried sick about you,” Sanda continues, folding her hands behind her back with almost military bearing. “The only son of Tsuyoshi and Mayumi Shirogane, legacy to the Shirogane bloodline, heir apparent as reigning champion of the noble order of St George, disappearing without a trace? Your parents suspect foul play. They looked for you for years, until they were forced to assume the inevitable.”

They hadn’t looked well enough, apparently. Shiro is grateful his training let him outdo even his teachers, enough that they couldn’t track him across the sea to Garrison City. At the same time, the implication that his parents had finally given up on him—or worse, that they actually trusted him enough to assume he was dead, because defecting was an impossible solution—is like a knife to the heart. 

He wishes it didn’t have to be this way.

Sanda is looking at him expectantly again, so Shiro says weakly, “Did they?”

“They did,” she says, eyes narrowed. “And when you couldn’t be found, they mourned for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, because what else could he say to that? He  _ is _ sorry his parents think he’s dead and that he put them through that. He doesn’t regret leaving.

“I am not the one who needs to hear it,” Sanda says curtly. “Of course, there are other reasons to apologize to them as well.”

“Are there?” Shiro asks, uncomfortable. 

Sanda gives him a cool look. “Your parents believed you must have been kidnapped and murdered, for no other explanation was acceptable.  _ Others _ were of the opinion that you simply ran off with a pretty lady and forsook the order completely. It has been rather wearing on your family’s noble heritage.” Her eyes narrowed. “That wouldn’t be the case, would it, Takashi?”

It actually wouldn’t, for more than one reason. But Shiro doesn’t think it’s a good idea to advertise that the real reason he left was because he disagreed with everything the order stood for. Not just yet, at least. Not when it’s probably a good way to guarantee Sanda will never let him leave alive. 

So he puts on the proper look of embarrassment and shame, ducks his head, tightens his shoulders, and mutters, “I...ah…”

She sighs. It’s the noise of an irritable headmistress dressing down a misbehaving student, not a soldier addressing an enemy. “I suppose the foolishness of youth should be expected. Nor should we have expected a mere teenager to bear the weight of both the legacy and the destiny of the Shirogane clan so easily. Perhaps that was unfair of us, to push you so hard to become better than even your superiors at such a young age.”

She shakes her head. “Very well. Come with me. I am currently on a mission, but you can assist me with it. It will serve as an offering of good faith, and make your return a little easier. Your parents will be overjoyed to see you alive again—enough, I suspect, to smooth over a few familial difficulties. I will speak to the rest of the leadership on your behalf.”

She turns on her heel to head in the opposite direction, with an ease that suggests she has no fear putting him at her back, and fully expects him to follow. Shiro stares after her, bewildered. She can’t really think it’s as simple as that? 

It’s too easy. It  _ feels  _ too easy. And regardless of if it’s genuine or an act, he can’t go with her. If she really believes he’s just a misguided youth that ran off in rebellion against the responsibility on his shoulders, she’ll cart him back to his family, and he’ll never escape again. And if she does know he’s a traitor and is trying to play him, the moment she leads him somewhere solitary, he’ll die. Neither of those ends are welcome.

The chance for pretense is over. So he squares his shoulders, plants his heels, and says, “No.”

Sanda grinds to a halt, and turns to regard him over one shoulder. “No?”

“No. I’m not leaving. I’m not going back to headquarters.”

She scoffs, turning back around to close the distance between them again. “Enough of this idiocy. You’ve had six years to fool about in the world as you like. That’s far more than most new agents of the secret and sword are ever given. It is time to assume  _ responsibility  _ for your actions.”

“I already am,” Shiro says. 

Sanda freezes. Her eyes narrow. “You know where your responsibilities lie, Takashi. Yours is one of the noblest families to ever join the Covenant of St. George. Do not presume to turn your back on it now.”

“I do know where my responsibilities lie,” Shiro says, glaring her right back in the eye. “And it’s not with the Covenant, indiscriminately murdering cryptids a council of humans tells me are wrong.” He’s terrified of openly admitting his reasons to a Covenant agent, much less Sanda, but there’s no turning back now. He won’t pretend to be anything less than what he is. 

“Quiet!” Sanda snaps. “Do you want to send these people into disarray? The general populace  _ must  _ be shielded from knowledge of such darkness, or it will cause chaos.” She shoots a cautious glance around at the people strolling by.

“The general populace is more resilient than you think,” Shiro says. “And the world doesn’t work like it did hundreds of years ago, when the Covenant was founded. Including the world of cryptids.”

“Those are traitorous words, Takashi,” Sanda says, a sharp note of warning in her voice.

“They’re true words,” Shiro says. “And I was taught to always do the right thing.”

“At the expense of humanity?” Sanda glances around at the people strolling by again, but nobody pays attention to them. If anyone did, they’d probably assume Shiro and Sanda were talking about a show or a book, not real life. Satisfied that nobody is eavesdropping on them, she adds softly enough that only he would hear, “The right thing is protecting innocent humans. You would betray your own race to evil things.”

“They aren’t evil. Not all of them. They’re people, and most of the time, they’re innocent.”

“They’re  _ monsters,”  _ Sanda says, and for the first time her stern expression gives way to loathing. Shiro doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know she’s thinking of her husband thirty years gone, and of his bloodied, broken, half-consumed corpse. 

That’s a tragedy, but it’s not a justification for indiscriminate murder. “So are some humans,” Shiro shoots back. “You can’t judge an entire population by one or two people. There are always exceptions. It doesn’t give us the right to exterminate anyone else who looks like them, because they’re not like us.”

He expects anger, or maybe a lecture about the holy righteousness of the Covenant of St. George’s calling. What he doesn’t expect is for Sanda to sigh and shake her head. With a resigned tone, she says, “I was afraid of this.”

Shiro frowns. This isn’t what he’d anticipated at all. Wary of a possible attack spearheaded by confusion, he tenses, ready to go for a weapon.

Sanda’s an old pro, and taught him many of his supplemental skills for combat outside of the traditional Shirogane training halls. She marks the subtle shift of weight and the tiniest hints of movement immediately. But she knows he can’t attack in broad daylight for the same reasons she can’t, and doesn’t so much as flinch.

Instead, she fixes her stern gaze on him. “Many people thought you had been tempted away by some wretched enchantress after your money. One that convinced you to empty one of your family’s accounts of funds and your head of any ideals, and disappear into the unknown. But a few of us interpreted that perhaps a bit more...literally.”

Shiro blinks.

“You’re sick, Takashi,” Sanda says, and to his surprise, underneath her firm statement there’s a note of pity. “You’re sick in the head. Something has gotten inside your mind and manipulated it against you, convinced you of things you never believed before.”

Shiro gapes. “I...what?”

“It’s not uncommon, I’m afraid,” Sanda says. “And you’re young. You lack experience to identify most of the monsters out in the world. Not all of them come with sharp teeth and claws. Many of them are subtle hunters.”

“That’s not—that’s not true at all,” Shiro sputters. Technically, part of it actually is. There  _ are  _ cryptids that specialize in mental or physical manipulation—succubi, johrlac, sirens, and some magic users, just to name a few. But none of them had an effect on Shiro’s decisions. Those had been all his.

“It’s understandable if you’re confused,” Sanda says, ignoring his outburst. “Such manipulations do tend to leave the victims extremely disoriented. And if you have been under the control of such a creature for years, there is no doubt in my mind the roots of that manipulative corruption run deep. Perhaps you haven’t been fully in control of yourself for years. It is all right—I will help you.” 

Shiro can only stare, meeting her stern look with wide-eyed confusion. He hadn’t been manipulated. She can’t really believe that, can she? Succubi, sirens and sorcerers wouldn’t have nearly that much iron control over him if he’d been taken against his will like she claims. And if a johrlac had gotten its mental claws in his head, it wouldn’t have taken him overseas to an unknown city. It would have shredded his mind apart, and used every scrap of information to its advantage, probably to tear the Covenant apart just for laughs.

Sanda waits expectantly, arms clasped behind her back. Shiro knows exactly the answer she’s waiting for—a plea for help, a weakly outstretched hand begging for forgiveness and rescue, as his mind struggles to unbury itself from beneath the influence of his cruel, imaginary captor. 

It would be easy enough to go along with the story. That he’d been taken in out of ignorance and whisked away as a mentally controlled prisoner, that his own thoughts and beliefs had been used against him, and that was why he hadn’t returned for years. He could use it to cover his movements in the city and learn more about Sanda’s operation, until he can figure out his own way to get rid of her. 

The lie sounds ridiculous to Shiro’s mind. But the Covenant believes anything not human is a monster. They probably wouldn’t think it out of place at all for a highly praised junior agent to be stolen away just to take a stab at them. 

Except Sanda would take it seriously. If Shiro did claim a siren or a witch or a johrlac had kept him prisoner somehow, she would make it her mission to find the so-called kidnapper and murder them. The Covenant is despicable in many ways, but it has its own code of honor it adheres to, and it looks out for its own. Rescuing a missing, presumed-dead junior agent from a creature he hadn’t been trained enough to recognize would be enough of a responsibility that even Sanda would turn away from hunting Pidge for this new threat. And someone innocent would die for a crime that had never even happened.

Shiro can’t do that. Not even to save his own skin.

But when he looks Sanda in the eye to tell her she’s wrong, he sees something else in her eyes. She’s waiting for an answer—and she already knows what’s going through Shiro’s head. 

She doesn’t believe Shiro was coerced away. She  _ knows  _ he believes what he said, however much she disagrees with it. But she’s offering him one last excuse, one last chance to back out on his so-called traitorous statements. A cover story to bring back to the Covenant, as proof that he hadn’t defected against them. A way to preserve his family’s honor and standing, and to give him something to defend himself against the distrustful stares if he returned. 

If Sanda doesn’t really buy the ‘enchantress’ line, then there’s probably more than a few higher ups in the Covenant that don’t believe he left for mundane reasons either. They must suspect he’s a traitor. And yet Sanda’s willing to try and cover it up for him, if he comes back into the fold quietly. 

Which isn’t to say he’d be able to go home with a clean slate. Sanda knows the truth—he’d never be able to move freely about the Covenant ever again. She would always be watching him. Not to mention the reputation he’d no doubt have collected for running off with some imaginary lady, or letting his parents think he was dead, would make life difficult. His old status would be gone, his inevitable ascension to champion of the Covenant lost.

But he’d be home. And he’d be with his family again.

It’s clearly enough of a hook that Sanda thinks she has him. And parts of it are tempting—he hasn’t thought of the old family home in years, or the friends he’d once trained alongside at Penton Hall, or the people who had mentored him. It’s a place of awful beliefs, but it’s a place that once held good memories.

But that’s not home anymore.  _ Garrison  _ is his home now, and his friends are his new family. He won’t turn on them. Not for anything.

“No,” Shiro says. “I don’t want or need your ‘help.’”

Sanda’s eyes narrow a fraction. “You’re a victim, Takashi. You are  _ sick. _ My sacred duty to humanity is to protect human victims. Currently, that includes you.”

“No,” Shiro says. “It doesn’t. I’m not sick. And I was never a victim, unless it was being a victim to the Covenant’s outdated, racist teachings. I left, willingly, of my own choice, because I didn’t agree with what the Covenant does. And I never will. And I will  _ never  _ go back.”

Now Sanda’s eyes narrow more than a fraction. “I cannot permit this to continue. I will drag you back if possible, but if I must kill you, I will.”

Shiro laughs. The sound is bitter, but determined. “You’ll have a hard time taking me anywhere. I  _ am  _ still a Shirogane.” 

“It is precisely because of your lineage that I tried to offer you a chance,” Sanda says. “I have a great deal of respect for your parents. They vouched for me becoming a full agent before you were born, when others would have cast me out. They offered me retribution. They taught me how to take it.” 

Her glare is icy. “But this?  _ This  _ is a disgrace to your name. Your parents would be disgusted. I’ll shield them from that, if I can. I think they would prefer the memory of you dead than a sympathizer with  _ monsters.”  _

Shiro tenses. That sounds like a declaration to kill if there ever was one. If she’s going to make a move, it would be now, but he refuses to go anywhere with her.

Her hands do slip into her jacket, and Shiro readies himself for the worst, mindful of the civilians in the area. If he can reduce the damage, take the fight somewhere less crowded—

But Sanda doesn’t strike. Not yet. Instead, she withdraws a business card with a number on it from her jacket, flicking it at him with practiced ease. He snatches it out of the air by instinct more than anything else, as she says, “I will offer you one last chance to correct yourself, Takashi. You will have twenty-four hours to reconsider. If you are as intelligent as the organization always believed, you will make the right choice.” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Shiro says. “And I don’t want your last chances.”

“I don’t do this for you,” Sanda says. “Though I wouldn’t mind rescuing you from your own misguided thoughts. You had such  _ promise.  _ You still could. But as I said, I deeply respect your parents—I would still like to give them the opportunity to see their son alive, whole, and untarnished. Family should not lose family so easily.” 

For just a flash, there’s a tired, saddened look in her eyes. And for all Sanda’s terrible arguments, Shiro can’t help but feel just the tiniest bit of pity for her. She really  _ did  _ believe what she was saying. She’d lost her own attempts at a family violently, and was never given the opportunity to go back. To her, the offer she’s giving Shiro now is one she herself would have snatched up in a heartbeat. 

But then the stern, unwavering Covenant commander is back. “I will hold my silence in my reports back to the order for twenty-four hours,” she finishes. “There is no need just yet for your mother and father to know about your...lapse in judgement. Return without difficulty, and I will ensure this entire incident is swept under the rug.” 

“And if I don’t?” Shiro asks.

“Then out of that same respect for your mother and father, I will kill you myself. There’s no need for them to know their beloved son, the pride and joy of the Shirogane clan, is a filthy monster sympathizer.” She narrows her eyes. “They already believe you to be dead. I will ensure that no contrary evidence ever surfaces, so their last memories of their only child will be untroubling ones.”

“I...see.” 

It’s about what he’d expected. Even so, something inside him quails a little at the thought of Sanda making it her personal mission to hunt him. Sanda was very good at what she did. Shiro’s not sure how well that encounter will go, when it inevitably comes, because he has no intention of taking her up on her offer.

“Twenty-four hours, Takashi Shirogane,” Sanda repeats. “I will hold my silence until then, for the sake of your parents. I do not wish to raise their hopes prematurely.” She stares him in the eye. “Make the right choice. Enough misguided adventuring; you’ve had years. Go home, and stay there.”

Shiro doesn’t say anything. Sanda doesn’t appear to expect him to. She turns on her heel and heads up the street, not worried for a second at putting him to her back. And as much as he’d love to draw one of his guns or fling one of his knives and put a well placed bullet or blade into her spine, he knows he can’t, and so does she. 

She vanishes around the corner three blocks down, and leaves Shiro standing on the street corner, helpless and frustrated and so very, very alone.

* * *

The first thing Shiro does, when he recovers his wits, is check the card Sanda had given him.

There isn’t much on it, just a single, hand-written phone number. It doubtless goes to a burner phone Sanda would keep off unless checking for messages to prevent tracking. Shiro’s not sure he could do anything to use it against Sanda, even if he gave the number to Pidge, who seems to be a tech expert. 

But he memorizes the number anyway, before dumping the card in the closest trash can, just in case the card itself has a tracking spell on it that would lead Sanda straight to him again. The last thing he needs is for her to know his whereabouts at all times.

His next step is to borrow the bathroom key at the convenience store on the corner and check his clothes over fully in the privacy of the restroom. Sanda isn’t a witch, and even if she was, there hadn’t been a chance for her to cast any kind of tracking spell while they’d talked. But that wouldn’t prevent her from slipping something into his pocket or under his jacket collar while he’d been preoccupied, or when he’d nearly run into her. He’d wasted ten whole minutes trying to mentally recover from the ordeal of visiting the crossroads; he’d stupidly dropped his guard, and she could have done anything then. 

But he doesn’t find anything, technological or magical. There aren’t any spare bits of foci or charms slipped into his pockets, and no cleverly concealed button cams or GPS trackers on his clothes. That, at least, is a relief. Assuming he can verify Sanda isn’t tailing him, he can at least move about without worrying that she’s watching him. 

That doesn’t mean he can go home, though, or back to Allura’s penthouse. Sanda’s marked him, and now that she  _ knows  _ he’s in Garrison, her tactics will change. He can’t risk going anywhere that would put his friends at risk, or meeting with any of them, until he has a better game plan than ‘don’t panic.’

He has to warn them. 

He can’t risk his own cell phone, though. It’s probably being  _ too  _ paranoid, but he doesn’t want to give Sanda even the chance to track him somehow. Nor does he want Pidge hacking his number to figure out where he is, just to lead his friends to danger. He switches his phone off immediately and tucks it away in a pocket.

It’s not ideal, but there are other methods of communication. Shiro surveys the local crowd as he heads back out onto the street, and finally selects a couple eating at one of the outdoor tables at a local pizza place. A pair of women will feel more comfortable with him approaching than a single woman on her own—there is safety in numbers, and he is a large guy—but he’s willing to bet they’ll be more sympathetic with his request.

“Hi,” Shiro says, putting on a mask of haggard exhaustion that isn’t entirely feigned, and sheepish embarrassment that is. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt you, I just...this is sort of embarrassing. I’ve had an emergency situation at work come up, but my phone just died. I need to call my brother and let him know I won’t be home tonight. Could I borrow one of yours? Just two minutes—I won’t go anywhere. Please?”

The womens’ expressions go from suspicious and wary to sympathetic, the moment they realize he’s not trying to hit on them or be creepy. “I’m so sorry to hear that!” one says, digging through her purse. “Yeah, sure, just a sec—”

“Thank you so much,” Shiro says, with gratefulness that isn’t at all feigned. “I really appreciate this.”

“Are you close with your brother?” the second woman asks, curious, while the first looks for her phone.

“I’ve looked out for him since we were kids,” Shiro invents on the spot. “Younger brother, you know?”

The second woman nods understandingly. “I’m the oldest, myself,” she agrees. “I totally get it.” 

The first woman finally locates her phone and unlocks it, handing it over. “Thank you,” Shiro says again, as he takes the tech. If Sanda’s watching, she’ll know they’re strangers; if she somehow traces the number, it won’t mean anything. 

He turns away from the table one step, still within reach so the couple won’t worry about him stealing the phone, and punches in Lance’s number. If Hunk and Pidge are still decoding, he doesn’t want to interrupt them—assuming they even pay attention to the phone ringing. Lance’s will probably be on, and he only has one shot at this.

Lance answers on the third ring, confused with just a bit of cautious hope. “Hello?”

Shiro winces. An unknown number calling him could probably look like his missing family finally reaching out, and he’s sorry to crush that hope. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have much time to dwell on that. “Hey, buddy. It’s Ryou. Sorry, my phone died, a nice person on the street is letting me use her’s.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Wait, Sh—Ryou? What’s going on?” There’s definitely caution in Lance’s voice now; he certainly knows something’s up. “Are you okay? If you’re Ryou you must not be able to talk, right? Can I talk normal?”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” Lance says, with obvious relief for all of two seconds, before he immediately rolls into, “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Listen though, bud—I got a call from my old boss just now, right before my phone died. She’s really hounding me to come back to work. It’s kind of important and time sensitive, so I’ll be doing a couple of extra shifts as a favor, okay?”

“Extra shifts? What does that—oh.  _ Oh.”  _ There’s a gasp on the other end of the line, and several curses. “Oh, crap. She found you? The crazy Covenant lady? Do you need a rescue?”

Shiro thanks his lucky stars that Lance had picked up on the double talk as quickly as he did. Unfortunately, that leads to other problems. “ _ No.  _ I’m sorry, it’s going to be a really late shift, please don’t wait up for me, okay? I’ll be back, I just can’t make it tonight.” Behind him, he hears the older-sibling girl make a soft  _ aww  _ of appreciation. 

Lance grumbles on the other end. “You’re  _ sure?  _ You’re absolutely sure.”

“I’m sure,” Shiro says. “If you don’t want to be alone, why don’t you stay at a friend’s house tonight?”

“Stay at Allura’s?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lance says. “Got it. I’ll tell Hunk. I’m sure Allura’ll let us crash here for the night. We’ve all got rooms.”

“That’s a great idea,” Shiro says. “Why don’t you invite your other friend, too? I know he’s been sleeping all day, since he wasn’t feeling that well, and you were keeping an eye on him. If you bundle him up nice and snug, he should be able to make it ok. I bet he’d feel better surrounded by friends.”

There’s a strangled noise on the other end of the line, before Lance says, “Go get K—uh, Akira, got it. But Sh—Ryou, he’s gonna kill us. He  _ hates  _ people messing with him when he’s all sun snoozy. He’s gonna freak out when he wakes up not at home. Is it really that bad?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, buddy,” Shiro says. “If I could get out of this shift, I would, but she’s really insistent, and she doesn’t have anyone else to help her.”

“Wait, does that mean there’s only one here, like you guessed before?” Lance confirms, thankfully picking out Shiro’s real meaning. “Okay. I guess that’s better than nothing…”

“Yeah. I’m gonna need to go in a sec—oh! Before I forget. That puzzle game we were talking about earlier? The one that’s supposed to be impossible? I think there might be a trick to it. I did a little reading around. There might be some techniques we can use.” 

“I’ll tell Pidge,” Lance promises. “Her and Hunk are maybe halfway through Slav’s dumb code. Coran and the mice are helping.”

“That sounds fun,” Shiro says. “Tell them to keep at it. Okay, bud, remember what I said. Stay safe and feel free to spend the night at your friend’s. My phone’s dead, I’ll call when I get the chance.” 

“Right. We’ll go get Akira right now.” Lance hesitates. “Stay safe, Ryou. Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Same to you. Later, then!”

He hangs up, clears the number from the phone, and hands it back to its owner. “Thank you again so much for the help. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem,” the owner says, offering him a friendly smile now that she’s no longer wary of him. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s really nice that you look out for your little brother like that.”

“You should totally tell your old boss to get lost, though,” the second adds. “She sounds like a real piece of work.”

“You’re telling me,” Shiro agrees. “I quit for a reason. But it’s helping people, you know? You gotta do what you gotta do sometimes.”

“Yeah,” the second concedes. “Good luck!”

Shiro nods to them both. “You too, and thanks again!”

Message delivered, he goes on the move immediately. He still has plenty of things he needs to look out for, but at least his friends ought to be safe. There’s no way Sanda could trace that message back, not with half a conversation and only his own alias to go off of. He’d been careful to never use anyone’s name, and while ‘Ryou’ has enough of an established legal presence to be traceable, it’s also an identity he can burn if he has to. Lance and Hunk will hopefully be able to get Keith out of the apartment without exposing him to any sunlight or watchful eyes, and Allura’s penthouse is practically a fortress. They’ll be safe, as long as he doesn’t go near them. 

He can’t go home, which definitely handicaps him, but it doesn’t hinder him completely. Paranoia might be unhealthy in most lifestyles, but it’s essential to his—and while he’s always  _ hoped  _ to never see the day a Covenant agent would show up on his doorstep, he has always planned for it. He’s set up at least a dozen emergency supply caches all over the city, just in case he needed access to weapons or field kits or other necessities on short notice.

The nearest supply cache is ten minutes away by bus. Shiro spends at least twenty minutes making absolutely  _ certain  _ Sanda isn’t following him, checking and rechecking for tails and using every trick both the Covenant and his job in Garrison have ever taught him. When he’s absolutely convinced Sanda isn’t keeping an eye on him, he catches a bus to the rental lockers and his best chance to restock.

The locker has a single backpack, ready to grab and go at a moment’s notice. It has eight hundred dollars in cash—untraceable—a bottle of water and a few granola bars, a garrotte, a taser, a dozen throwing knives, a small firearm, a change of clothes, a light sweater, and a field kit with the basic essentials for most standard cryptid encounters. A quick check of the kit indicates it has most of what he needs for his plan, and anything else he can pick up easily at a grocery store on the way.

With his new bag of backup gear, Shiro enacts the next stage of his plan, heading for East Garrison.

Motels are a staple feature of remaining unseen for any length of time, and the cheaper the better. They may not have much in the way of comfort, but nobody looks twice at anyone staying in one of the rooms. The one Shiro has in mind is in a fairly human-dominated area of the city, not near any of his friends or their usual haunts, and has a minimal risk of putting people in danger should Sanda find him. It’s also unlikely to be inhabited by Sanda herself, since the Covenant prefers to house its combat agents in more defensible hotels for the short term missions. 

Unsurprisingly, the Snick Snack Motel has an open vacancy. It’s not the worst place Garrison has to offer, but it definitely isn’t the best. It’s grubby and woebegone, with disinterested staff that don’t even bother to look him in the eye. His room has more than a few spiders in the corners, a bathroom door that doesn’t actually latch, and a bed with a mattress that’s stiff and unyielding. 

But it’s cheap, which means he can make his emergency cash last, and Sanda will have a hard time finding him here. It gives him a base of operations, and a place he can easily vacate in a hurry if he has to. And it’s not like he really plans on  _ sleeping  _ for the next few days, anyway, so the bed can hardly be a disappointment. 

The motel provides minimal protection from Sanda, but it doesn’t take care of his other problem: the crossroads. Lotor had seemed  _ far  _ too interested in getting Shiro’s service through a bargain, and absolutely convinced Shiro would be back. He’d already tried a few underhanded methods to get Shiro to agree. Shiro wouldn’t put it past the crossroads entity to have Acxa or one of his other servants pop in again to try and resume the bargain, and he can’t shake the sickly feeling in his stomach that says he’s being watched.

So he barely wastes time getting through the door and setting his backpack and the small plastic bag of groceries on the bed. He gives the dim motel room a once over to familiarize himself with its security—or lack thereof—before he sets to work on the rest of his defenses.

Ghost wards don’t actually require any kind of magic to set up, as long as you do it properly. Sure, sorcerers and witches—especially routewitches, who have an affinity for speaking with ghosts—have a little extra power to put into their wards in the right situations. But they only give it extra juice, to do its job exceptionally well. Any layman can set wards to keep ghosts out of an area of their choosing, as long as they have the right tools.

The salt, rosemary, and clean water had been easy enough to find in a grocery store. Three iron nails were trickier, but a little hardware store on the corner provided more than enough. The grave dirt is the hardest, but thankfully, Shiro has some in his field kit, since it’s a common enough reagent in anything related to keeping the dead at bay. Burn it with the proper rituals, and he has a ghost-proof motel room for the duration of his stay. 

He can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief—nearly choking on the acrid smoking leftovers of the ritual—as it takes effect. It’s hard to be certain if it actually worked, with no ghost to test it on, but he’s done it enough times through the Covenant training programs that he’s fairly certain it will be successful.

“No more crossroads ghosts,” Shiro mutters, exhausted, wearily sitting down on the side of the hard, uncomfortable bed. “At least for now.”

It’s not a perfect solution. Only the room is warded; any ghost could wait outside the door until he leaves and pounce, if they wanted to. But it will give him a safe place to think and regroup while he tries to come to terms with everything that’s happened in the past few hours alone. 

Had it really only been that  _ morning  _ that he’d surveyed the Arusian Park playground one last time for evidence of a ghost child? It’s only been a few hours, and he’s already helped a bogeyman evade Covenant pursuit, gotten embroiled in not one but  _ two  _ dangerous jobs, nearly fell to a deal with the crossroads, and accidentally revealed himself to a deadly Covenant agent. The sun won’t set for another two hours and yet he’s still done more in a day than he would have thought possible. 

He’s exhausted, physically and mentally. And yet, now that he actually has a chance to slow down and take a breather, his thoughts won’t stop  _ spinning,  _ whirling around his head wildly.

He’s  _ still  _ shaken from his encounter with Lotor. That level of power and control, the impression of omniscience, the blatant manipulation of perception that was never quite a lie and yet always skirted the truth...all of it combined is terrifying.  _ Lotor  _ is terrifying, and it’s hard to imagine how anyone would ever make a deal with something so unrepentantly, brazenly dangerous. 

And yet it isn’t. God help him, Shiro had actually considered it, the moment Lotor had dangled that one little scrap of information in front of him.  _ What do you know about Galra?  _

What would Shiro be willing to pay for that? 

A lot more than he’d realized, and that little revelation about himself is just as scary as the crossroads entity itself.  _ Everyone  _ wanted something, and Lotor knew exactly how to find it and use it against them. 

Shiro shudders.

And Sanda. What the hell is he going to do about  _ Sanda?  _ He hadn’t thought up a solution  _ before  _ she’d found him, when he still had the element of surprise to work with. Now she knows he’s here, and in less than twenty four hours, she’ll be coming for him. 

Because he can’t agree to go back. He  _ won’t.  _ He won’t turn his back on his friends, and he won’t sacrifice an innocent cryptid to Sanda’s whims just to convince her he’d been ‘controlled’ for the past six years. 

But he can’t win against her, either. No matter how he turns it over in his head, over and over, faster and faster, there isn’t a solution where he comes out the victor. In twenty four hours, Sanda will try to kill him. If he kills her first—assuming he even can—more Covenant agents will descend to investigate and to get their retribution, and all of Garrison City falls into chaos. If she kills him, she won’t stop there—anyone else who might have been responsible for ‘converting him to his blasphemous ways’ will fall to her blades as well. His friends will die, and he won’t be there to protect them.

Maybe agreeing to go back  _ would  _ be the better option. Maybe he can convince her to just...leave, as long as he goes with her. Leave his friends alone. Forget finding a scapegoat. He could say whatever he had to, to protect his friends, to protect the city—that he’d been tricked, that he’d been afraid of responsibility, that he’d dreamed of something else outside the order. He could take the degraded reputation if it meant his friends survived.

Maybe it wouldn’t even be so bad. Shiro has avoided thoughts of his old life in the Covenant as much as possible, barring training that was actually useful to his new cause. But Sanda’s return is bringing back old memories with family and friends. He knows how much blood is on their hands, and he can never accept that, but at the same time...he knows they’re good people in other ways. To most cryptids they were the monsters in the night, faceless and terrible, but to Shiro they were humanized  _ people  _ in a way that was heart-achingly painful. 

Maybe he could change things. Change  _ them.  _ At least some of them.

But no. Sanda would never permit it. If she truly pitied him, she might  _ claim  _ she would, but his friends would still die by her orders one way or another while she kept the knowledge to herself. 

Even if that didn’t happen, he knows the order would question him for days on his whereabouts. Perhaps forcefully, if they really did suspect he was a traitor. He would crack eventually, if they wanted him to, and his friends would still die. They would never change their ways, and never learn to see cryptids as  _ people.  _ That cycle of hate would never stop.

He rubs his face with his hands, exhausted. What can he  _ do?  _ There aren’t any good answers. There’s no way to get out of this. Somebody is going to die, and there isn’t even a self-sacrificial way to ensure it’s  _ only  _ himself. 

He’s exhausted, utterly alone, and completely devoid of answers. Never in his life has he felt so completely helpless, so unsure of what to do.

* * *

Shiro doesn’t intend to fall asleep. But his exhaustion must have overwritten even his wild, increasingly frantic thoughts, because he wakes up with a start some time later, keeled over sideways on the uncomfortable motel bed.

For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is, and he panics. Then his memories come rushing back, and he remembers the incidents with the crossroads and with Sanda, and finding a motel to hole up in for the duration. It had gotten dark outside since he’d fallen asleep, and no sunlight pokes through the drawn curtains anymore.

He groans, and blinks blearily at the glowing green numbers on the clock on the motel nightstand. Nine-twenty-three. He’d slept for a little over three hours.

Damn it. He hadn’t meant to  _ sleep.  _ He barely has enough time as it is to resolve the issue without wasting it being unconscious.

He’s also disgusted to find, as he levers himself up, that he’d fallen asleep fully armed and wearing his windbreaker. He hasn’t done that in years. Sleeping with a blade or a gun under his pillow is a paranoid but necessary habit; sleeping with a blade or gun strapped in his person is asking for injury. It’s a great way to perforate a kidney when rolling over on a throwing knife.

If he’d been  _ that  _ exhausted, to the point of falling so deeply asleep in the middle of his anxious thoughts and potentially accidentally killing himself, he can’t imagine why he’d wake so suddenly. He has that same muddled, uncomfortable feeling as being sharply dragged out of restorative sleep by a blaring alarm clock, but he doesn’t know why. It hadn’t been a bad dream. He doesn’t even remember dreaming.

Then the knock sounds at the door again, soft but insistent, and suddenly Shiro has his answer.

He immediately tenses.  _ No one  _ should be on the other side of that door. No one should know he’s  _ here.  _ And with not one but two different people looking for him, he sincerely doubts whoever this is could be friendly.

He slips one of the knives from the inside of his coat and slips towards the door. It won’t do him any good if it’s Acxa on the other side, or one of the other crossroads ghosts. But if it’s Sanda…

But before he even makes it to the peephole of the motel door, a voice hisses in his ear, “Shiro! It’s  _ me,  _ let me in!”

Shiro jerks in surprise, already whirling the knife to bear at his imaginary assailant. It’s sloppy and reactionary, but considering the day he’s had, he’s willing to forgive himself for high strung, nervous responses. 

But nobody is there, and a second later he recognizes the voice.  _ Pidge!  _

Pidge was a bogeyman. She could throw her voice, just like the rest of her species, even through a door. It’s an unnerving skill, which is apt considering their title; bogeymen are generally very fond of ‘unnerving.’ Still, Shiro is just glad it’s  _ just  _ a skill, and not a ghost that had somehow slipped through his wards.

Paranoia won’t quite let him whip open the door without still checking the peephole first. But it’s definitely Pidge on the other side, clearly on tiptoe as she stares back at him. He cracks the door open, and hisses, “What are you  _ doing  _ here? How did you even find me? My phone is off!”

“Same way I found you last time,” Pidge says, with a pointed look. 

Shiro groans. The crossroads. Of course. Lotor’s attendants might not be able to get into his room, but they would certainly know where he was at.

“Look, can we talk inside?” Pidge adds, glancing over her shoulder anxiously. “I really don’t like being out here in the open.”

“You shouldn’t be out in the open at all,” Shiro accuses, even as he holds the door open wider to let her in. She passes through the wards harmlessly, thereby proving she’s not some illusion one of Lotor’s ghosts is wearing, if they can even do that. “You’re  _ supposed  _ to stay behind safe walls.”

“Staying behind safe walls isn’t going to help me find my father and brother,” Pidge says. “Besides, I’ve got news, and we’ve got things to talk through. Oh—and the other guy is here too.”

“Other guy?” Shiro asks, incredulous, as she mimes holding the door open. 

Before she can answer, a dark shadow flicks past the dim parking lot lights, and Keith all but materializes out of the gloom. “Nobody’s following us,” he reports. “Checked twice.”

“Thank goodness,” Pidge says, relieved.

Shiro groans. If Keith is here, he is almost  _ certainly  _ about to get a lecture. It’s amazing how easily the helpless kid he rescued a few years ago is able to call him out on less than intelligent decisions now. But he steps aside to let Keith flow through the door as well, before shutting and barring it with all the locks the motel has to offer.

“Okay,” Shiro says, once his meager security is in place. “I’ve warded the room against ghosts, so Pidge—you’re safe to talk freely. And on that note—” he whirls around. “What the hell is going on here? Why are you  _ here?”  _

“I could ask you the same thing,” Keith says. He stands defiantly in the middle of the limited space of the motel room, arms crossed, glaring fiercely at Shiro. With his sunglasses removed and in one hand, his deep red eyes make for an exceptionally accusatory stare.

“He’s been angry since he woke up,” Pidge says conversationally to Shiro, as she flops onto the bed and immediately winces at its resistance. “That was a weird introduction. I’m starting to think angry is his default setting.”

Keith scowls. “You’d be pissed too, if you were in my position!  _ You  _ try waking up in a blanket burrito in a strange room you weren’t in when you went to bed! It’s  _ confusing. _ I thought I’d been kidnapped, until the mice started cheering at me.” __

Shiro can understand his frustration, but more than anything else, he’s relieved. “Lance and Hunk got you out of the apartment safely, then,” he says with a sigh. “Thank goodness. I don’t think she could trace me back to my apartment from a conversation, but it never hurts to be safe.” 

“They did,” Pidge agrees. “And then it took them half an hour to convince him it wasn’t some kind of stupid prank. He was kind of a jerk about it.”

“I said I was sorry,” Keith mutters, now scowling at the floor and clearly uncomfortable. “I just don’t like it that people can move me around like that so easily during the day, and I don’t like people messing with me when I’m helpless.” 

He grumbles. “And then all this stuff going on. When I went to bed this morning my biggest dilemma for the next night was going to be if I wanted type A or B for breakfast. Then I actually wake up somewhere that’s not home, and Lance tells me nobody knows where you are, because you had a run-in with the Covenant and then went radio silent. What was I supposed to do? Of  _ course  _ I’m going to look for you.”

“He caught me sneaking out,” Pidge admits. “I didn’t realize vampire hearing was so good. When I said I knew where you were, he said he was coming, end of story. Kind of hard to say ‘no’ when he shows his teeth like that.”

Keith’s uncomfortable stare at the floor turns back into a glare at Shiro. “Now stop dodging my question. What  _ are  _ you doing here?”

Shiro stares back, unrepentant.  _ “I’m  _ here because Sanda found me, and I’m not risking leading her back to any of you. The rest of you should be safe in Allura’s penthouse, not trailing me out here.”

“That’s stupid,” Keith snaps. “You need backup. If there’s a Covenant agent out there, you shouldn’t be going up against her alone.” 

“I’ll be fine, Keith,” Shiro says reassuringly. It’s a bald faced lie—he won’t be fine and he knows it—but he doesn’t want Keith or anyone else in the crossfire. “I was born and raised Covenant, remember? I have a better shot than any of you of surviving an encounter with Sanda.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re any less in danger than the rest of us,” Keith says stubbornly. “Just because you’re human doesn’t make you invincible.”

“That’s not what I’m—”

“Maybe it would be better to update everyone on everything we’ve learned on either side, before making any important decisions,” Pidge cuts in, giving each of them a pointed look. “We’ve learned some stuff since we last talked to Shiro. And maybe Shiro’s got a good reason for hiding out that we don’t know yet, because he couldn’t tell us much in a coded conversation. It’d be kind of dumb to pick next steps without knowing all the answers.”

Keith scowls, showing off his gleaming fangs. “You don’t know that.”

“I know Shiro’s still the best chance I have of finding my family and getting out of this deal,” Pidge says. “If he thinks something’s up, I’m gonna listen. I want to hear what he learned, and I want to tell him what we figured out. I  _ don’t _ want to put myself at risk before I find my family, because Shiro’s expecting a Covenant agent to come through that door in the next thirty minutes, and we didn’t listen to his warning because you were too busy arguing with him over it.” 

It’s the kind of blatant pragmatic behavior Shiro expects from a bogeyman. He’s grateful for it, even if Keith looks irritated at even the suggestion that Shiro flying solo for the duration of these events is the right choice. Not only does it neatly put a halt to Keith’s arguments, it gives him hope that maybe they  _ will  _ listen when he tells them to move on.

Before even that, though, he’s curious. “What  _ did  _ you figure out?”

Pidge nods to him, giving Keith a pointed look. “See? He gets it.” She turns back to Shiro. “We finally cracked that code and figured out where Slav is. I don’t know how the heck that message counted as ‘for an emergency’ though. Hunk’s pretty smart, and Coran’s not bad, and I have a higher IQ than most, but this Slav guy is a genius. It took us almost four hours to break it. If he needed a sudden rescue, he’d probably be dead by now.”

Shiro shakes his head absently as he accepts a slip of paper from Pidge’s too-long fingers, with the address scribbled on it. “No, that’s the point. He can’t be easily found, but if he  _ needs  _ to be easily found, he’d just spend his luck to make sure his rescuers figured it out in time. It gives him some control.”

Pidge stares at him. “Huh?”

Shiro sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. He’s already getting the early start to a tension headache at just the  _ thought  _ of working with Slav. “He’s a jink. They feed on and manipulate luck, both good and bad. If he gets in over his head, he can twist the odds in his favor. Literally. Like, for example, letting you stumble on the key to the puzzle with a lucky thought.”

Pidge’s jaw drops for a moment. “Oh,” she says finally. “I’ve never met a jink before. That’s...cool, but also kind of…”

“Uncomfortable?” Shiro asks. Pidge nods, and he says sympathetically, “Yeah, it...takes some getting used to. It’s not actual mind control or manipulation or anything, but sometimes it feels like it.” Especially when Slav was being particularly irritable. 

“But this guy knows all about the…” Pidge glances around warily, and even knowing the place is warded, she drops her voice to finish softly, “...crossroads?” 

“I hope he does,” Shiro says. “If anybody will, it’ll be him. Other worlds are kind of his specialty.” 

Pidge presses her lips together for a moment, but then nods. “Worth it.”

“Good.” Shiro eyes the address again. It’s maybe half an hour by bus. Fortunately, Slav keeps odd hours, which means he should be awake, home, and hopefully willing to chat late into the night. “I’ll head over now to talk to him—”

“You’re not going anywhere alone,” Keith says, arms crossed stubbornly. “I’m going with you.”

“We’re  _ both  _ going with you,” Pidge says firmly. “This is my problem, not yours. And anyway, I want to know if my father ever talked to him either. If he’s so brilliant when it comes to magic, maybe my dad reached out to him at some point.”

“It’s not safe for you to come with me—” Shiro begins.

“How about you tell us why?” Keith says. “Pidge is right about one thing, we definitely couldn’t get the whole story from your coded message.”

Shiro sighs, but it is a fair question. Both of them, as cryptids, have the right to know about Sanda being out there. And Pidge, at least, deserves to know what little information he could glean from his nearly disastrous attempt at reconnaissance at the crossroads.

So he explains about his chance encounter with Sanda, and the ultimatum she’s given him. He does his best to sum it up succinctly, without going deeper into the mental battle he’d been waging against himself before he’d fallen asleep. They don’t need to be burdened with his uncertainty over what choice to make, or his old homesick feelings violently clashing with his new understanding of what ‘home’ really is. 

“Which means she’ll be coming after me in less than a day, so you need to stay as far from me as possible,” Shiro finishes. 

“But we’ve got a little under twenty four hours,” Pidge says. “That’s some time to move freely, isn’t it?”

“Just because she won’t kill me until she gets an answer a day from now doesn’t mean she’s not tailing me,” Shiro says. “Even if she’s not tailing me, she’s  _ definitely  _ still looking for  _ you.  _ And if she does find you or Keith in my company, she won’t hesitate to attack either of you.”

“The three of us together still have a better chance keeping an eye out for her, or taking her on, than you do alone,” Keith points out. “I’ve got better hearing and vision than  _ both  _ of you in the dark.”

“And she doesn’t know there’s a vampire in the mix yet,” Pidge adds. “You told me yourself in the park, she knew how to hunt me because she knew what I was. Having a wildcard as backup seems like a smart plan to me.” 

Shiro groans. “You’re not going to let me go alone no matter what I say, are you?”

“Nope,” Keith says, without an ounce of shame. “We’ll tail you from behind if we have to, but you’re not going by yourself.”

“Fine,” Shiro concedes. “But you listen to what I have to say, and if I give you an order, you do it.” If they’re going to be going to Slav’s, at least they’re going to do it as safely as possible.

“As long as the order isn’t ‘run away and save yourself,’ I’m in,” Pidge says.

“Same,” Keith agrees. “So that’s it? Should we go find this Slav guy then?”

“Hold up,” Shiro says. “There’s...one other bit of reconnaissance I did when I left.” He takes a deep breath, and then says, “I visited the crossroads.”

Keith’s eyes widen for a moment, before he hisses, “You did  _ what?”  _ On the bed, Pidge’s jaw drops as she stares at Shiro.

Shiro holds up his hands hastily to forestall any lectures. “I didn’t make a deal,” he promises. “I just wanted to see what we were dealing  _ with.  _ I backed out on purpose since I knew the price would be too high to pay.” 

Keith scowls. “What would you even  _ do  _ that for?” he asks, incredulous. He knows a little about the crossroads from helping with Shiro’s Covenant journals, and had probably heard Pidge’s recent story when he’d woke up. He knew how dangerous even that risk was.

“I had to know if there were weaknesses at all. As it turns out, I think there might be.” He counts off his observations on his fingers. “They didn’t want to let me in at first, which means they’re selective about their...clientele. When they did take me to their bartering world, the other crossroads ghosts thought I might be a threat and wanted to kill me—”

“—and that’s a  _ good  _ thing?” Keith asks, incredulous.

“It is,” Shiro says, “because it means they thought I could  _ be  _ a threat. You don’t react defensively to something that you know can’t hurt you. And last but not least, they were  _ really  _ eager to get me to sign on so they could have me as a ‘field agent,’ so to speak, in the real world. Which means they have a limited reach. All those things together mean we might actually have a shot, if we can figure out a good course of action.”

He looks to Pidge, offering her a hopeful smile at the end. Even a little bit of light in the darkness is sure to cheer her—relatively speaking, anyway, since bogeymen tend to prefer the dark as a rule. Except Pidge doesn’t look hopeful or grateful. She still looks shocked, and a little sickly to boot. 

“Pidge?” Shiro asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, a little shakily. “It’s just, that explains a lot, actually.”

Shiro frowns. “What do you mean?”

Pidge takes a shaky breath, and then says, “Remember how I said I knew you were here the same way I knew you were in that park?”

“Right. The crossroads told you where to find me.”

“Yeah. Well, they didn’t do it this time because they owed me it because of my deal,” Pidge says. “They, um...they called in their favor.” 

Keith looks confused. “How? You were at Allura’s with us. I didn’t see you go anywhere or anyone else show up for as long as I’ve been awake.”

“They waited until I used the bathroom,” Pidge says. “After we cracked the code. Then Ezor—that’s one of the crossroads ghosts—showed up and said my payment was due.” She swallows. “I’m, um, supposed to get Shiro to make a deal with them. By any means necessary. Convince him, talk up the crossroads...Ezor suggested stabbing you just so you’d have to make a deal for your life.” 

Keith’s teeth immediately flash as he snarls. “If you try to hurt Takashi—”

“I won’t! I don’t  _ want  _ to!” Pidge says, holding up her hands defensively. “Shiro’s been great. He’s the only person who’s bothered to try and actually help. I don’t want them to own him. I bought some time by saying I didn’t even know where he was and it might take me a bit to convince him. Ezor told me where to go, and that’s how I knew how to come here. But…” She swallows. “They’re gonna keep pushing. They really,  _ really  _ want you to work for them.”

“Of course they do,” Shiro says, pinching the bridge of his nose again. The tension headache is definitely getting worse. “If they’ve got me on the hook, they effectively have an on call assassin they can use to manipulate things in the world for them. They’re bound by laws of magic and nature, but I’m not.”

Pidge swallows. “That sounds...really bad. I don’t want to know what they could get up to if they had a Covenant trained operative working for them.”

“If they think Takashi’s a potential threat like he said, better to have him on their side, too,” Keith adds with a frown. “If he owes them, he can’t hurt them.”

“That too.” Shiro sighs. “Okay. Pidge, for now, just being seen in my company might be enough to convince  _ them  _ that you’re at least trying to do your job. That might buy you a little time. As long as they think you’re working on me, they won’t force you to try extreme measures. But don’t go anywhere alone, for now...sounds like they won’t try to grab you if you’re with company. And Keith—as soon as you two get back to Allura’s place, you’ll need to have her and Coran ward against ghosts.”

“What makes you think I’m leaving?” Keith asks hotly. 

“If I don’t have a solution for the crossroads  _ or  _ Sanda before morning, you’re going to have to,” Shiro says patiently. “You’re completely vulnerable during the day. You need to be in the safest place possible. Right now, that’s Allura’s penthouse.”

Keith doesn’t look happy about it, but grudgingly nods. “Fine. I’ll make sure they do that, then.”

“Good. I’ll write down how, in case they don’t know. I’m sure Allura can get the materials on short notice.”

“Any other surprises from anyone?” Pidge asks, as Shiro scribbles the ward instructions down on the dingy motel memo pad on the night stand. “Secretly a Thirty-Six Society spy? Actually a sorcerer in hiding? Got some Sasquatch blood?”

“If I was any of those things, my parents would have killed me years ago,” Shiro says, as he hands the ward instructions over to Keith. Keith pauses in the act of taking them, and both he and Pidge stare at Shiro. He frowns. “What?”

“I was just joking,” Pidge says. “I didn’t expect something that dark in response.”

“That’s the first time I’ve even heard you talk about your parents,” Keith adds, with a slight frown.

Shiro mentally curses himself. Family is such a difficult subject—normally it’s exactly as Keith said, and he never brings them up unless it’s specifically to reject the heritage of his surname. But Sanda showing up just keeps dragging old memories and thoughts out of him, and it’s leaving him all messed up in his head.

“Just lightening the mood,” Shiro says, with a forced smile that he hopes doesn’t look too fake. “I think we’re all set, in any case. Slav’s half an hour by bus, so we should get moving if we want to make decent time. But before we go—are you both armed?”

Keith nods. “I’ve got my knives,” he says. Not that Keith would need them, with his preternatural strength and speed, but it  _ is  _ something Sanda wouldn’t expect. When hunting monsters, you’re taught about their teeth, claws, strange abilities and notable weaknesses. You’re never taught that they might be packing a semi-automatic or a brace of throwing knives. 

Pidge shakes her head. “I had a swiss army knife in my backpack before, but Sanda stole it,” she admits. 

Shiro considers. There’s no way he’s letting Pidge go out there, potentially into Sanda’s line of sight, without being armed. If she’s going to insist on being out there at all, she’s going to do it properly. “Do you have training in any kind of weaponry?”

She shakes her head again. “Bogeyman. We scare you to death, or…” She raises her hands and her long fingers with too many knuckles, wiggling them in a sinister way. 

“That might work on common humans, but it’s not going to work on Sanda,” Shiro says. “If you need to get away, you need a trick up your sleeve. Here.” He reaches into his emergency cache backpack, and after a moment’s search, takes out the taser he’d packed. He shows her how to use it, adding, “If Sanda does show up and get close, blast her with this. It should give you enough time to get away. Keith can cover your back.” 

Keith scowls. “I’m not going to leave you behind—”

“I’m also going to run,” Shiro says, cutting him off. “But remember, I’m safe for another twenty or so hours. You guys don’t have that protection,  _ and  _ Pidge can’t be left alone or she’s open for ambush from the crossroads. Stun her and run. That goes for everyone.” 

Shiro’s honestly not sure Keith will actually listen, if it comes to it. He’s just going to have to hope Sanda doesn’t show her face for their outing.

That, and that the universe can hold it together for just a few hours. Just long enough to  _ maybe  _ give him a chance to figure out at least one of his problems. 


	20. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Five

“But I can’t stop paying attention to the world just because I’m scared. I’m too well trained for that.”  
—Verity Price, _Chaos Choreography_

**_A nondescript apartment complex in North Garrison, well after eleven at night, really wishing being here wasn’t necessary_ **

As it turns out, the universe had decided to answer at least one of his silent prayers. Although both Shiro and Keith are extremely thorough, checking and rechecking for tails, Sanda is nowhere to be found. They’re able to catch a bus to North Garrison after a reasonable wait with no interference, and before long they’re at the doorstep to Slav’s latest hideaway.

“Let me do the talking,” Shiro cautions, glancing back at Pidge and Keith. “He’s never met either of you, so he’s bound to be a little…”

“Shy?” Pidge offers.

“Paranoid,” Shiro corrects with a sigh. “You can ask your questions after, but let me get him calmed down first.”

“I’m _really_ glad I didn’t meet this guy last time,” Keith grumbles.

Shiro is too. Keith definitely has his skills, but working with people tends not to be one of them. Between himself and Keith, he’s pretty sure one of them would have killed Slav the first time. They might still just, really.

He knocks on the door, using the complicated series of short and long taps Slav had absolutely insisted on last time they’d met. He hears movement on the other side, but when two minutes pass with no opened door, he does it again. When still nothing happens, he sighs in exasperation, and hisses, “Slav, it’s _me._ Takashi Shirogane. I’m here with friends, who I promise are also trustworthy.”

“I don’t _know_ it’s you,” comes the immediate response on the other side of the door, in a muffled Indian accent.

“Who else would I be?” Shiro asks. “You’ve met me before. You can _see_ me through that peephole. It’s _me.”_

“You could be a doppelgänger,” the voice answers, suspicious and sulky. “You didn’t use the right knock. It’s the day of a prime number, minus two. That is a _different_ knock. You might not be you.”

Shiro can already feel his eye twitching. “Slav, if I was an evil look alike after you for some nefarious purpose, I’d have already busted the door down instead of having this stupid conversation _through_ it. It’s me. _Open the door._ Please.”

There’s a long pause, before the voice on the other side of the door says meekly, “Yes, I think that’s definitely you. You may come in.”

The sound of no less than twelve locks being unbolted, unchained, and turned reaches them next, and then the door opens just barely enough to let them in. “Quickly, quickly!” Slav orders. “The anti-scrying wards grow one percent weaker for every three seconds the door remains open!”

They need no further invitation. None of them want to be out in the open on the streets either. 

The moment they’re inside, Slav immediately leaps back to the door, resetting all the locks with a practiced speed so surprisingly fast it’s almost as though he has more than one set of hands. When he finally finishes sliding the last bolt into place, he whirls around, and they finally have their first full look at him.

Although Slav _is_ a crytpid, there’s nothing about him that stands out as unnatural. For all intents and purposes he appears to be a short Indian man with large, owl-rimmed glasses, a stubby, beaky nose, and an absent-minded, wispy beard, like he’s forgotten to shave while absorbed in his work. From what Shiro knows about him, he probably had. Despite being shorter than Shiro, barely coming to his own shoulders, Slav is surprisingly lanky and thin, giving him the overall impression of a large-eyed living twig. 

He doesn’t _look_ inhuman, but he most certainly is. Although jinks are close cousins of humans, they’ve developed an evolutionary ability to consume and manipulate luck. They tend to be good natured, but a jink with a grudge—or a bad habit of consuming all the good luck from people in an area—could be a very dangerous thing.

Not that Shiro suspects Slav of ever intentionally being malicious. Slav brought his own eccentricities to the table that could be difficult to deal with, but he wasn’t a killer or a trickster. Mostly, he just wanted to be left alone—something that happened less than he’d like, with his almost encyclopedic levels of knowledge regarding other realities and magic systems.

“I estimate the anti-scrying wards have only been compromised by five percent,” Slav says, as he frantically surveys the etchings in the doorway. “I should be able to reset them, but the gems required to do so are currently trending twenty five point five percent higher on the market at the moment.”

Shiro sighs. “I’ll buy them for you, assuming I live that long,” Shiro says, by way of compromise. And then, since it’s a perfect segue into the question he wants to ask anyway, “Why anti-scrying wards?”

“Because of _privacy,”_ Slav harrumphs, as he delicately traces one finger over the etchings carved into his doorway. “People trying to steal my work day and night. Tch! I cannot do any proper _research_ with spies and ghosts and spells interfering. It is not _efficient.”_

Then Shiro’s words catch up to him, and he whirls around. “Wait! ‘Assuming you live that long’? Are you expecting to _die?_ You can’t die here! Or now! You have the highest potential odds for a successful rescue in the event that I am kidnapped again! At least thirteen percent!”

“That’s it?” Shiro grouses. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

Slav zips closer. For such a small man, he’s surprisingly fast. In no time at all he’s tugging at Shiro’s jacket, raising first one of Shiro’s arms and then the other and turning them over by the wrists, and circling him repeatedly while poking him, muttering about ‘positive probabilities.’ Shiro, having encountered this at least once before, manages to not reflexively punch Slav through the wall and endures it with resigned patience. 

“Um…” Keith blinks. “What...exactly are you doing?”

Slav ignores him, so Shiro says, “I think he’s looking for luck. He’s done this before, just give him a minute.”

“It isn’t _luck,”_ Slav snaps, proving he is in fact listening and just choosing not to answer unless he wants to. “It is _energy influence on probability,_ and it is extremely important to not dying!”

Pidge frowns. “But you’re a jink,” she says. “Isn’t your thing lu—”

Shiro shakes his head warningly, and Pidge’s mouth snaps shut mid question. She blinks in bewilderment, but doesn’t finish, and Slav, preoccupied, doesn’t follow up. 

That’s something of a relief. From what Shiro’s been able to gather from speaking to the rare other jinks in Garrison, they can see luck with their own unique biological adaptations. But Slav is probably the only jink in the world to insist it isn’t _luck_ at all, but rather an energetic expression of visible probability. And he _will_ lecture about it for hours, if given half a chance. It might interest Pidge later—she seems the type that could maybe keep up with what Slav said—but for now, they just don’t have the time.

Slav concludes his invasion of personal space and his investigation after a moment or two. “You have considerably more positive influential energy towards probability than negative,” he summarizes. “Given probability matrices, your chosen profession, and the current standards of this reality, I would estimate your chances of death in this reality are still about nineteen percent, but that is not guaranteed.” 

Translation: his luck is more good than bad, although he could still get himself killed if he decides to get into a fight with something, like he usually does.

“Unless there is another variable that might increase your probability for death?” Slav adds, eyes wide behind his glasses. “If there is, you must tell me immediately! Your potentials for death could reflect badly on me!”

“Way to think about the important things,” Keith growls under his breath.

“That’s what we’re here about now, Slav,” Shiro says, trying to keep his voice as patient as possible. He’s very proud of himself, in that only a _tiny_ bit of a growl makes it to his voice. “If we can sit down and discuss things with you, that would save us a lot of time. We think you might be able to help us with something.”

“And it’s... _totally_ private?” Pidge adds, hesitantly. “No...other visitors? Living or, er, not?”

Slav sniffs disdainfully. “My study of wards from a dozen different magical and non-magical practices is better than any other being alive. I am effectively invisible to all scrying and spying parties, living or dead, unless I choose to let them enter.” 

Which wasn’t perfect—as Shiro had seen in the past, there _were_ ways to find Slav, if you were diligent. But it does make him a lot harder to track down, and forces people to jump through much more dangerous hoops just to have the chance to get their hands on him.

It also means, for the time being, they’re safe from the eyes of Lotor and his crossroads ghosts. They might know who’s in the house, but they can’t know Slav’s full breadth of knowledge, and they can’t eavesdrop on anything he might reveal to them.

Pidge breathes a sigh of relief, clearly thinking the same thing. “Great,” she says. 

Slav seems to notice the others with Shiro for the first time, as more than just other warm bodies in the room. He surveys Pidge suspiciously, and Keith even more suspiciously, before asking in a beleaguered tone, “Are you here to kill me?”

“What?” Keith snaps. “No!” 

“What about torture?” Slav asks, still wary. “Are you here to torture me for information?”

“No torture either,” Pidge says, thankfully cutting off an increasingly insulted-looking Keith before he can snap something back. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking to you later after this is all over, that location cypher was _brilliant_ and Shiro says you know all kinds of things about magic. But no torture involved. Just talking.” 

“Of course my cypher was brilliant,” Slav says, as if it’s an observation not worth wasting time making. “My works are _always_ brilliant. Are you a spy? Are you trying to steal my knowledge?”

“Like I said outside, they’re friends,” Shiro says quickly, since now both Keith _and_ Pidge look deeply affronted. Slav doesn’t mean to be insulting; that much Shiro knows, even if he is frustratingly difficult to deal with. Shiro knows paranoia intimately, but his doesn’t hold a candle to Slav’s. 

He points at each of them, introducing them, and then says, “Pidge has a situation we need to talk to you about. We’re hoping you have some information on the subject.”

“I have information about _many_ subjects,” Slav says. “But I don’t want other people here. I have a _very_ delicate balance of probabilities. Everything is just right. My percentage of death or serious injury in this reality is low enough to be comfortable. Other people _change_ that.”

Shiro’s eye twitches slightly, but he says, “We don’t have anyone else we can ask who might have the information we need. If we don’t get it, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll get killed. Then you lose that thirteen percent chance I’ll successfully rescue you in the future.” 

A flash of anxiety crosses Slav’s face. He mutters a string of numbers and percentages under his breath as he presumably calculates his odds with or without Shiro still existing, before he says finally, “Alright. I will permit it, and answer your questions.”

He whirls around to jab accusatory fingers at Keith and Pidge. “But _don’t_ touch anything!” he warns. “If you touch anything, you may alter my percentages to not go up in a deadly fireball, or avoid an earthquake at this exact coordinate, or cause temporal fissures that spontaneously cause your mother to have a broken back!”

“Broken back?” Keith asks, bewildered.

“There’s not even a fault line in Garrison,” Pidge adds, equally confused. “How would you have an earthquake?”

Slav zips towards her, alarmingly quick, and grabs her by the collar of her T-shirt, yanking them close together. “ _Don’t. Touch. Anything!”_ he hisses, wild eyed and insistent. 

Pidge yelps at the reaction. She looks like she’s about to argue, but Shiro shakes his head over Slav’s shoulder, and mouths, _Bad luck._ It doesn’t matter if there’s a fault line or not for a natural earthquake; if Slav’s luck accumulation is bad enough, literally anything can happen. 

Pidge catches it, and her eyes widen, but all she does is nod meekly. “Okay. No touching.”

Obviously relieved, Slav releases her, wringing his hands as though cleaning off something dirty. “Alright. Come this way, then. The living room is the safest room in the house for discussions. The probability is the most stable. _Don’t touch anything.”_ And he zips through a door to the left, leading them further into the house. 

Slav’s home is...eclectic. Shiro hasn’t been in this exact apartment before, but he’s been in a few of Slav’s other temporary safehomes, and they all appear more or less the same. Each one has an organized sort of chaos to it, with items that appear to be strewn over chairs, tables, desks, and even the floor as though absentmindedly discarded. 

Shiro knows each and every one was carefully placed by Slav to exact specifications only the jink could understand. Slav had given him a frantic earful the last time Shiro had checked in on him and accidentally nudged the corner of a blanket on an ottoman out of alignment. He’d spent fifteen anxiety-fueled minutes adding specific folds and creases back to prevent the pipes from freezing, and Shiro had learned never to move anything in Slav’s home again. 

It means traveling through the kitchen and dining room to the living room is a sort of extreme, inverted game of ‘the floor is lava,’ carefully stepping over and even hopping around items strewn on the floor without moving them. Thankfully, Pidge and Keith are both agile enough and smart enough to follow Shiro’s lead, and they manage to get through the place without any mishaps. 

The living room is a little cleaner, thankfully, and the couch is surprisingly devoid of any odd probability-balancing items. It even lacks throw pillows or a blanket. All of them stand around awkwardly for a moment, before Pidge asks cautiously, “Um, are we allowed to touch the couch?”

“Yes, yes,” Slav says absently, waving his hand at it, as he settles in his own comfortable armchair. “It is safe. You can touch. Sit and talk already. The longer you are here, the longer you destabilize the balance of the probability, so hurry.”

“Crazy,” Keith mutters under his breath, so low Shiro only barely hears it. 

They settle down on the couch, Shiro in the middle with Keith and Pidge on either side of him. “I won’t waste your time, then,” Shiro says, once everyone is settled. Or his, for that matter; he only has so much time to spare now. “We’re here regarding the crossroads.”

Slav leaps to his feet immediately, waving his hands frantically. “What? No! I don’t want to talk about that!” He looks around nervously, and immediately snatches up a blue blanket settled neatly in the corner, folding and creasing it over and over.

“Slav, it’s okay,” Shiro says, as soothingly as he can. “You have your wards, remember? They can’t hear you. The ghosts can’t get in, and the... _presence..._ can’t see or hear you without them. Everything is okay.”

“It isn’t! It’s _dangerous!”_ Slav howls, still carefully folding and twisting the blanket just so. Shiro’s not sure if he’s spending luck or doing something else entirely with his strange probabilities, but either way, he understands the sentiment. For once, he agrees with Slav: he’d rather be dealing with anything else than Lotor. The crossroads _are_ dangerous.

“You’re right,” he says, because agreeing with Slav always calms him down a little. “Which is why we need to talk to you. I need a way to fight them. If I can find a way to fight them, I can make them less dangerous for _everyone._ That includes you.”

“Fight the _crossroads?”_ Slav nearly squeaks. “Your chances of success in this reality are less than one percent. Even _with_ optimal positive probability. You will die. And then they’ll figure out who told you how to fight them, and they’ll come after me! No, no, I don’t want you to fight the crossroads.” 

He finishes arranging the blanket just so in the corner, but it doesn’t seem to allay his anxiety. He wrings his hands, then dashes to several of the other furniture pieces in the room, adjusting them in increment amounts. “Oh, no no no,” he says. “This won’t do at _all._ So many bad probabilities—nothing good comes of this conversation! Go away.” 

“Slav,” Shiro repeats, very slowly. “It’s going to be _okay._ They can’t hear anything you have to say. Right now, we just want to talk to you about it. That’s it. Okay?”

“But the probability that you act on any information I give you is very high—more than seventy-five percent,” Slav insists, as he fixes the chair of the nearby writing desk by a few degrees. “If I tell you, the most likely result is that you act, and if you act, the most likely result is that you fail, and then you die, and then _I_ die, so no! I won’t do it.” 

This isn’t working, not this way. Slav is too worked up over his own potential death to be of any use. Pidge is starting to look alarmed and discouraged, and Keith is _definitely_ rapidly losing patience. Shiro’s a little irritated too, but his own stark fear at meeting Lotor is still too new and fresh for him to really be angry at the researcher. 

He understands _exactly_ what Slav is afraid of. He’s just as afraid of it. Lotor already has eyes on him, and is determined to have Shiro in his clutches; if not talking about it would make him go away, he’d do so in a heartbeat.

But that’s not an option, so he tries a different tactic. “Okay. You don’t have to talk right now—how about I explain our situation, instead? Maybe if you hear everything we’ve uncovered so far, our chances of winning go up. Right?”

Slav eyes him suspiciously. “Perhaps,” he eventually agrees. “Depending on certain parameters and information…”

“Right,” Shiro says. “So let me tell you what we’ve figured out so far.” 

And he does, launching into a brief explanation of all the crossroads dealings so far. How Pidge had made a deal to find her brother and father, but the crossroads sent her to Shiro instead. How Shiro had pretended to think about a deal in order to see the crossroads for himself and gauge their danger. How he’d noticed hints of weaknesses in their defenses that might be exploitable. How Lotor was now calling in Pidge’s favor to recruit him somehow.

He lays it all bare, and finishes with, “I think Pidge’s deal is too fishy. She asked for one thing, but got a different thing. I can’t think of any wiggle room to mis-interpret that as something else, deliberately or otherwise. Seems like a breach of contract to me.” He looks Slav in the eye. “Do you think that’s something we could work with?”

Slav fidgets nervously. Over the course of Shiro’s explanation he’s gradually settled back down in his comfortable armchair. Now he looks away, clearly uncomfortable.

Slav is frequently uncomfortable about a _lot_ of things, but Shiro thinks he’s hit on something. “C’mon, Slav,” he coaxes. “You need to tell us. We could help a lot of people with this.”

“No, thanks,” Slav says. He still looks away awkwardly.

Shiro’s eye twitches. That had been a long shot. Slav isn’t deliberately malicious, but neither is he particularly altruistic; the greater good never seems to appeal to him. “Wouldn’t it be better to _not_ be scared of the crossroads?” he tries instead. “I know you’re afraid of them hurting you, but I think we have a real chance here. But we have to hurry.” 

Slav shakes his head. “There is still a very high probability that you will die. I don’t want to die because you die.”

“But is my chance of dying still less than one percent?” Shiro asks, challenging.

Slav fidgets. Mutters to himself. Considers. Squints at Shiro. “In _this_ reality? No,” he says finally. 

Okay. Progress. Shiro will take it. “I think you know a way to fight the crossroads,” he says. “Before, you said they would come after you if you told me how to fight them. That means you know a way. If I know, I can do something about it.”

Slav does not look happy. “They guard information about themselves _very_ carefully,” he says. “Do you know what they will do to me, if they realize I have knowledge about their weaknesses?” He wrings his hands anxiously. “They’ll torture me to learn where I learned it, and then they will kill me. I don’t want to be tortured or killed!”

“I won’t let that happen,” Shiro promises. For all his talk of resisting murdering Slav himself, he would still do everything in his power to keep the jink alive. That’s what he _does._ “All I need is an angle or a weapon, Slav. You know me. I’m a Shirogane. We’re _really_ good at killing things. And it means you don’t have to be scared of them hunting you down anymore for your knowledge. That’s worth it, isn’t it? A little less fear, and a few less spies?”

Slav wrings his hands again, considering. “You won’t let them take me?”

“I promise. And so do these guys,” he adds, gesturing to both Pidge and Keith. “And the rest of my friends. You’ll be protected.” Pidge nods immediately in agreement, eager for her answers from Slav. Keith is slower, needing a subtle elbow from Shiro to get him to jump in, but he, too, eventually nods.

Slav worries his lip for a moment, but finally nods. “I’ll tell you,” he says finally. “Wait here!” And he dashes out of the room, leaping over the discarded blanket and a few stacks of paper without disturbing them in a movement that spoke of long practice.

Shiro exchanges looks with the others. After a moment, Pidge says, “He’s not dashing out the back door, is he?”

“No,” Keith says. “I can hear him still. I think he’s digging through a cabinet in the other room?” He cocks his head, listening for sounds of movement neither Shiro nor Pidge can make out.

“I know he’s a little....difficult to get used to,” Shiro says. God, does he ever know. “But trust me. If he says he’ll do something, he really will do it. He can be reliable where it counts.”

“If you say so,” Keith says, clearly dubious. 

But sure enough, Slav comes rushing back five minutes later, this time with an armful of books and journals. He drops them onto the coffee table, saying, “You are correct in that there _is_ a way to defeat the crossroads. At least, there is a sixty-five point four zero five percent certainty of it being a possibility. However, everything I have pieced together is largely theoretical. There has never been a proven case of such defeat, and much of the supporting information is unproven. There is a twenty percent probability that I am completely wrong.” He sounds offended at even the _suggestion_ he could be wrong, even coming from himself. 

Pidge reaches for one of the books, eyes practically gleaming in delight, but Slav slaps her hand away. “No touching!” he reminds her, voice sharp.

Pidge winces, rubbing her long fingers where he’d smacked them away. “Ow! Okay, okay, no touching.”

“Even if it’s not proven, I still want to hear what you have to say,” Shiro says. “You’re pretty smart when it comes to these things. I’d bet on that sixty-five percent.”

Slav sniffs. “I am more than _pretty smart,”_ he says. “And it is sixty-five point four zero five, not sixty-five. But even if my theories _are_ correct, the probability that you are successful is still low. The crossroads are very powerful, and you are not. Are you _sure_ you can protect me?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. And at Slav’s dubious look, he adds, “How many times have I pulled through on situations you thought were unwinnable? _Without_ any manipulation of probability? That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”

Slav considers. “You do have an abnormally high tendency to turn probability in your favor,” he concedes. “And for a mere human, you attract a great deal of both positive and negative probability influentials. It does make it extremely difficult to calculate on your success ratios.”

Shiro’s pretty sure that’s Slav-ese for ‘you have weird luck and you’re a wildcard in any given situation.’ He’ll take it as a compliment.

Slav sighs, but turns to the books, flipping open one of them and setting it open at an exact page. He adjusts his glasses, then says, “It isn’t as well known or advertised, but there is an ‘appeal’ process for deals made with the crossroads entity.” 

Pidge’s head snaps up. “There is?”

Slav nods, gesturing to the page of the book he’d opened. “There is an account here regarding an audit. If a deal is made, but the entity has not fulfilled their end of the bargain, it is possible to demand an audit of one of the entity’s crossroads ghosts. The ghost can forcibly take the appealer and all invested parties to the crossroads, to review the deal and its terms. The deal can be enforced, re-negotiated, or broken as is needed, and payments will be returned if required.”

He snaps up one finger, pointing dramatically. “But!” he says. “It is very important to note that it can _only_ be applied to an unfulfilled deal. The crossroads are bound by laws of reality that are not the same as the laws of physics. Breaking their own laws can have dangerous consequences for them. But _challenging_ them under those laws are dangerous, too. If your appeal is not valid, the repercussions on the dealer can be...very, very painful.” Slav shudders.

“What does that matter in our case?” Keith asks, frowning. “Pidge asked to know where her family was and they didn’t tell her. They sent her to Shiro. That’s not what she asked for, no matter how you look at it.”

“But _was_ it?” Slav asks, gesturing sharply at Keith. “Language has _precision_ , and most individuals don’t use it properly. The crossroads _does._ They can word their bargains exactly to benefit themselves, so that they _technically_ have provided what was asked for by letter. They have followed their own laws. There is nothing to appeal.”

“So they lie?” Pidge asks.

“No,” Slav says. “They cannot lie. They can misdirect and twist words, but everything is technically precisely true.” He flips open another book, and jabs at a paragraph. “This, for example. An account written by a farmer’s wife in fifteen seventy two. During a bad season, this farmer traded his firstborn to the crossroads in exchange for ‘years of good harvests.’ The crossroads provided two good crop yields before the fields went barren. The farmer’s wife wrote that her husband intended to appeal, but never returned after heading to the crossroads to challenge the negotiation.” 

Slav looks up. “The mistakes are obvious. The number of years were not specified; two allows for the plural request. Additionally, no negotiations were made to return the fields to their original state, or that they could not be made unusable after the requested fertile years were met. The deal wasn’t broken. I theorize the farmer’s disappearance was compensation for wasting the crossroads’ time with a potentially damaging appeal.” 

Shiro scowls. “So as long as they meet the request to the letter, meeting it in spirit isn’t necessary,” he summarizes. It’s a devil’s deal if there ever was one, and more or less what he’d suspected in the first place. It’s frustrating to have it confirmed all the same.

And yet, having met Lotor first hand, he absolutely believes the crossroads capable of such deceit, without ever actually lying. Every single one of Lotor’s words had been carefully measured, designed to entice Shiro into a deal. But now that he thinks about it, each one of those words had also been carefully chosen to benefit Lotor when the deal he was expecting inevitably came. 

“That is _exactly_ what I just said!” Slav says, scowling a little. Then he turns on Pidge. “So the real question of whether or not you have _any_ probability of inconveniencing the crossroads lies in the _exact_ nature of your deal. What was asked for? And what was gained? _Exact_ words. That is _extremely_ important for my calculations!” He narrows his eyes and leans over the coffee table into Pidge’s personal space, waiting.

Pidge leans back automatically, and Shiro reaches out with one arm to block Slav from getting any closer. “Can you remember, Pidge?” he asks, gentle and encouraging. 

“Um…” Pidge squeezes her eyes shut, and clenches her hands on her lap. “I went to a crossroads I found in England. I asked to make a deal, and Ezor showed up—she’s the crossroads ghost that seems to be my...I don’t know. Case worker? She took me to a field with a lot of corn...but I think it was in another world.”

“Another dimension,” Slav corrects. “The crossroads exist on their own plane of existence. They only partially manifest for initial deals, but must be crossed over into _fully_ for any sort of completed negotiation or audit.” 

“He called it Oriande,” Shiro adds, thoughtful. “The...the form the crossroads entity took, when I spoke to him.”

 _“Oriande?”_ Slav repeats. “It hasn’t been given a name before now! I must cross-examine this immediately against an index of other known dimensions, realities and planes—”

Shiro catches him by the arm before Slav can scurry off, distracted by his new goal. “Focus,” Shiro says. “You can do all that after we leave.” Slav grumbles, but stays put.

“Did the form the crossroads took look kind of like a purple elf for you?” Pidge asks. 

Shiro’s eyebrows both raise, but then he nods. “Yes. He called himself Lotor.”

“Same for me,” Pidge says. “The ‘voice everywhere’ thing was kind of...confusing. Like, _really_ confusing. They seemed to think that was funny, but I guess they also didn’t want to wait around all day waiting for my mortal brain to try and comprehend them. So they took a form, and he’s the one that made the deal with me.”

“Which was…” Keith prompts, crossing his arms. 

Pidge closes her eyes again. “Um. I asked him if he was able to tell me if my brother and father were still alive, and he said he could give me that information. I asked if he could tell me how to find them. He said he could give me that, too. And...um, the exact wording Ezor used when brokering the official deal was…” She squeezes her eyes together harder, brows coming down in a frown as she struggles to remember _precisely._ “ ‘The deal of information—the confirmation or denial of the survival of Samuel and Matthew Holt, and knowledge of how to locate them—has been set at the price of one task, to be performed at a later date, at the discretion of the crossroads.’”

Shiro quirks an eyebrow at the names. _Holt_ definitely isn’t _Gunderson,_ which is just further proof that Pidge is using an alias. He doesn’t press the issue, though. It’s none of his business, and they don’t have time for it anyway.

“And what _exactly_ were you given?” Slav presses, leaning close again, until Shiro once again puts an arm up to give Pidge some proper personal space.

“They confirmed my dad and brother were alive. I didn’t get proof of it, though. But you said they can’t lie, and Lotor did specifically say they were still living.” Pidge swallows. “So the first part of my deal was definitely met.”

“And the second part?” Slav gestures impatiently.

“He said Shiro was the last known person to speak to my brother that I could reach,” Pidge says slowly. “Who wouldn’t kill me on sight. He gave me all the information I needed to find Shiro. Address, known haunts in the city, his job, what he looked like. Everything I needed to find him. It was a goldmine of information.”

“But not the information you asked for,” Keith says slowly. “They didn’t tell you where your dad or brother actually were, or how to find them.”

“No,” Pidge agrees slowly. “But I didn’t...I didn’t even notice. I was just so relieved that I finally had information on _somebody_ who had actually seen or talked to them recently. Nobody else could help me. I figured this ‘Shiro’ guy must have a good lead, if the crossroads was sending me to him. Maybe he’d talked to Matt recently, or Matt was hiding out with him. I didn’t question it.” Her eyes go wide with horror. “I didn’t _question_ it. I’m so stupid! It’s so _obvious_ it’s a misdirect!”

“Easy,” Shiro says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. Lotor’s _really_ good at manipulating people. I almost made a deal with him anyway, even though I went in knowing he’d try to trick me and prepared myself to leave without one. And if you didn’t catch that other ghost manipulating you—”

“Huh?”

“One of the other crossroads ghosts. Narti, I think she was called.” Shiro scowls. “I don’t know what she was before she died, but she definitely laid a mental compulsion on me to agree to the deal. I caught on and had Lotor tell her to stop, but that’s only because I’ve been trained to notice that kind of thing. If you didn’t know about it, it’s possible you were nudged into agreeing without reading the fine print, so to speak.”

“How is _that_ okay by these weird magic rules?” Keith asks, incredulous.

“Crossroads ghosts are not held to the same standards as the crossroads themselves,” Slav says, waving it aside as if it’s old news. “They can lie and manipulate as they see fit, since they were once mortal. If it’s not made note of, and not appealed against, it’s not illegal.” 

“So that’s our angle to fight from, isn’t it?” Keith presses. “They manipulated Pidge into saying yes without thinking it through or questioning.”

Slav shakes his head. “How would you prove it? Impossible. An accusation without evidence is worthless in an audit against the crossroads. It would never work.”

“Lotor would definitely talk his way out of it,” Shiro agrees. “He could just claim Narti was acting independently, like he did with me when I called him out on it.”

He considers. “But that isn’t our real angle. Because he sent Pidge to me with the _implication_ that I could tell her how to find her brother, and let her draw her own conclusions. But I can’t really do that. I last saw her brother six years ago, before I even ran away to the states. I don’t even know where he went five minutes after I saw him. Lotor sold her false promises.”

“More than that,” Keith says slowly. “This Lotor guy seemed really hung up on getting Takashi to work for him, right? And he knew where Takashi was right away. If what we were talking about before is true, and they think Takashi’s a potential threat and were watching him, Lotor might have pointed Pidge his way just to try and get his hooks into Takashi.”

Shiro pales at the thought. The very idea that an entity as terrifying as Lotor had eyes on him before Pidge had even showed up is alarming, and makes it all the more imperative that he _can’t_ be allowed to make a deal. Whatever Lotor has planned for him, it can’t be good. 

But it does help their current case. “Which means not only did Pidge not get her actual request,” he summarizes, “but she’s actually been manipulated into serving Lotor’s own agenda unwittingly, before even agreeing to a task. She never got her request to the _letter,_ and was distracted away from thinking about it.” He turns to Slav. “Does _that_ sound like a valid case?”

“Perhaps,” Slav concedes. “It is difficult to calculate the exact probability for success without knowing additional variables, like the skill of the arbitrating crossroads ghost, or the tactics the crossroads might employ to keep their bargain but meet the demand. If they _do_ have the information regarding the location of the missing family members, they may grant it and retain the original deal, for example.”

“Which means I still have to recruit Shiro for them,” Pidge says, with a slow shudder. “Which I don’t want to. But if they _do_ have the information about dad and Matt…”

“I don’t think they do,” Shiro says. “Why jump through hoops if they didn’t have to? If Lotor had that information he could have used it to secure even more of a hold on you.” He considers. “It’s still a bit of a gamble, but...Slav, assuming best-case scenarios, where they don’t have other information to trade on it, what do you think our odds are?”

Slav considers, twiddling his fingers as he calculates. “With the best possible positive probability, limited negative probability, an excellent arbiter for the audit, and unquestionable failure to meet the terms of the deal...I estimate a forty-eight percent chance of success, in this reality.”

“Which we’re not gonna get,” Keith says, frowning. “Because one of those things is a crossroads ghost on _our_ side, being a good ghost lawyer. And they all work for Lotor. Which means none of them would want to help us overthrow him.”

Pidge groans. “He’s right,” she agrees, putting her head in her hands. “Ezor would _never_ turn on Lotor like that. Or that Narti one, if she’s manipulating people for Lotor independently.” 

Nor would Zethrid, Shiro recalls, going through the crossroads ghosts he’d seen himself. She’d been all too eager to kill Shiro and toss his body in the corn; there was no way she’d fight Lotor. But maybe…

Acxa had been strange. She seemed steadfastly loyal to Lotor, and during the negotiations in Oriande she had been professional and devoted to her job. But the pitying look she’d given him as she led him to Oriande had been unusual. And the way she’d seemed to warn him not to call again, after she’d dropped him off back on the streets of his own reality, had left him genuinely surprised. 

Acxa is definitely a professional. But Shiro wonders if she’s loyal to Lotor, or loyal to her job as a crossroads ghost. And if it’s the latter...they might have a chance.

“I may have an angle on that,” he says slowly. “One of the ghosts might... _maybe..._ be willing to help. It might still take a little convincing, but I don’t think that part is completely hopeless. Give me a little time to work out how to handle that, but for now, let’s think about it like we’ve got access to a crossroads ghost on our side.”

“So, what then?” Pidge asks. “We appeal my case, with a somehow nice, cooperative crossroads ghost. And then what? Assuming they can’t give me the information I want, that kills them? No more threat?”

Slav gives her an incredulous look. “One appeal, kill the _crossroads?”_ he asks, with a high pitched voice. “No, no, no! The crossroads are a _force._ If they were that easy to kill, it would have been done a long time ago!” 

Shiro’s eye twitches. “Then what was the point of all this discussion, Slav?” he asks. “Why bother to figure out how to appeal if that’s not our way to fight back?”

“The appeal _weakens_ them,” Slav says, as if speaking to a particularly dense student. “If they lose, it has consequences. They cannot break the fundamental laws of reality they are bound by. To do so is damaging. But it won’t kill them.”

“But weakening them opens up another form of attack,” Shiro says slowly. Like hamstringing a troll to get it down to eye level for the real kill. “Right? So what’s the real attack?”

Slav hesitates, fidgeting nervously. “I am not exactly sure. It is all theoretical from this point on, you see. Obviously, the crossroads still exists, which means no successful attempt has ever been made—even records of appeals are nearly nonexistent and only detailed through personal accounts, and I have no records of a _successful_ appeal, which means the probability of the crossroads being weakened _enough_ for another strike is unknown, as is the degree of weakening a successful appeal might bring—”

“Slav.” Shiro’s eye twitches again. “Cut to the point. Please. We’re on a time limit here.”

Slav flinches, but after a moment spits out, “Did you know the crossroads appear to have changed since they first originated?”

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose. The tension headache is definitely coming back now. “What does that have to do with defeating the crossroads, exactly?”

“I am getting to that,” Slav says, with a wounded expression. “The crossroads are a force that have existed as long as there have been oral and written records by sentient beings. I have collected oral accounts dating back to B.C.E.” He gestures to the journals on the table. “The probability that there are even more is extremely high. Human nature in particular is not always inclined to share stories about meeting with strange forces, especially when they consider such meetings to be embarrassing or counter to their moral teachings. It is immensely frustrating as it reduces the number of primary sources and the data significantly and—”

“Slav…” Shiro gives him a warning look.

“I am _trying!”_ Slav says. “This is _important!_ Details are _always_ important!” 

“Okay, so, why is it important that the crossroads have been around so long?” Pidge plays along. “We already know they’re in tons of old stories, ripping people off and getting mistaken for devils and fairies.”

“Ah, but that is _wrong!”_ Slav says triumphantly, slapping his hand on one of the journals. “It wasn’t _always_ that way! In much older records, the deals made were always considered ‘fair,’ a gift given for an equal price paid. A blood payment purified toxic water in the town well. A payment of magic safeguarded a village against famine. A woman was able to sacrifice her ability to have more children, in exchange for saving the life of her current son from a plague.” He taps the journals again. “These are all recorded accounts that actually happened. The prices might have been heavy, but the rewards for those prices are equal in value, and none of the bargainers reported feeling tricked.”

Shiro frowns, and despite himself, he’s actually intrigued by the tangent. He thinks back to the sly, clever Lotor, the way he’d offered tempting promises while watching like a hungry predator. Try as he might, he simply can’t equate _that_ terrifying, deadly being with someone fair, like Slav describes.

“So what happened?” he asks. 

“Not what,” Slav says. “We can’t know what for sure. _When._ When is the question. And the answer is approximately five hundred years—perhaps a little longer. It is difficult to be sure, with inaccurate oral records and poor recording techniques.” He scowls at the seeming ineptitude of peasants in the fifteen hundreds for daring to not record their secrets in modern formats. “It is around that time that the deals began to change.”

“Change how? From being fair...sort of...to ripping people off?”

“Yes,” Slav says. “Exactly! In some cases, entirely literally. The first account I can find is of a woman whose husband was turned completely inside out, organs at all.”

Pidge claps a hand over her mouth, gray skin going a little green. “Ugh! What deal could she possibly have asked for to get.... _that?”_

Slav whisks one of the books on the table open and gestures to a handwritten paragraph. “She asked them to reverse his manner of thinking, and his behavior. The crossroads reversed him.”

“And how did nobody challenge _that?”_ Keith asks, disgusted. 

“Nobody knew they could, if my research is correct, which there is an eighty-five percent certainty of,” Slav says. “Nor did anyone expect it.” He flips through more pages. “For the first thirty years or so after the approximate time of the change, the deals were excessively violent and destructive. Based on all the accounts I have located, bargainers were genuinely surprised at the new kinds of results they were receiving.”

“And nobody really believed it could be true at first, so more people kept going, and more violent things kept happening,” Shiro realizes. “Until the rumors eventually started to spread for what we have today—underhanded deals where you probably won’t get what you asked for.”

Slav nods. “Exactly! The bargains became more subtle after about thirty years, and less excessively violent. But by all accounts, the damage to their reputation had been done by then.”

Shiro sighs. “That’s actually pretty interesting, but I’m still not seeing how this has anything to do with defeating the crossroads. If anything, it proves in the past five hundred years they’ve gotten stronger and meaner.”

But Slav shakes his head. “No, no, no,” he insists. “This is where it all comes together, don’t you see?” 

“Let’s say I don’t,” Shiro says, managing to not rub his temples to ease his growing headache through sheer force of will. “How is this relevant?”

“Because it doesn’t make _sense,”_ Slav says, as if it were obvious. “The crossroads employs patterns. I have charted the patterns of every single deal before and after the approximate timeline of the change, and there is simply no _reason_ to alter tactics five hundred years ago.”

“Maybe they got tired of doing it the old way,” Keith says.

Slav gives him a withering look, as though Keith is particularly dense. “The crossroads are a _force,”_ he says. “And like all other forces—nature, physics, magic, probability—they operate by their own natural laws. They don’t get _tired of doing things.”_

“He seemed pretty sentient to me, when I talked to him,” Pidge says dubiously.

“A force can have some degree of intelligence,” Slav says, in a lecturing tone. “That doesn’t make them mortal. They operate by their own laws, not laws created by humans or cryptids.”

Which is a fair point, Shiro reasons. Just because the crossroads had taken on the form and name of ‘Lotor,’ that didn’t make them alive in the same sense Shiro was. Shiro had felt their age and their power. There was no doubt that the crossroads operated on a different level of existence entirely than he did, even if they _could_ communicate with him by imitating a living thing.

“He’s right,” Shiro admits, after a moment. “So what does that mean for your theory?”

As always, Slav treats acknowledgement of being correct like it’s a common fact, and moves right along. “Through observation of oral and written records, according to the original laws prior to the change five hundred years ago, _this_ force operated and thrived on _balance._ An exchange of equal value was made, bargainers left satisfied, and the crossroads gained something in return as well. They sustained themselves for thousands of years in this way. So what logical reasoning would they have to _change_ that? What do they gain from breaking the balance, and taking more than they give?”

“They get more of whatever they ask for...at least, for the short term,” Keith says. “The...favor or sacrifices or whatever. But people would stop showing up eventually once the word gets around you lose out if you go there…”

Slav points at Keith. “Exactly! Yes! The crossroads benefit on _deals._ If no one comes to deal, the crossroads weakens. The change is _not_ beneficial from the perspective of the crossroads. Any force that has existed that long would understand the long-term loss of such a change. I calculate a sixty-three point five percent probability they would also adhere to their original goal of _balance_ , because that is what they likely exist _for_ to begin with.” 

“But it did change,” Pidge says. “We know it did. You just said so, and you’ve got the proof.”

“But did the _crossroads_ change?” Slav asks. “Or did something else _force_ them to? There is something unusual about the _way_ the deals changed. Once again, there is no logical reason to become so excessively violent for the first thirty years before becoming more subtle about unsatisfactory deals. But this pattern _does_ hold true for other things from other forces—like magic.”

Pidge’s eyes widen. _“Oh,”_ she breathes. “You mean when people first come into their magic, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Slav seems both pleased and surprised that Pidge knows the answer. “Perhaps you aren’t completely hopeless!”

Pidge ignores the backhanded compliment, instead glancing at Keith and Shiro. “My dad studied this,” she explains. “New magic users, but especially sorcerers, can struggle with their magic when it first starts to manifest. New sorcerers with fire powers might first learn they have them because they accidentally set their own sheets on fire or cause something to explode. Frost sorcerers might cause a snowstorm inside their house. That sort of thing. Dad equated it to a newborn screaming—babies don’t understand they’re hurting themselves by screaming at the top of their lungs, they just do what comes naturally. It’s only after time and practice they learn to talk or yell without harming themselves.”

Keith blinks. “You’re saying the thirty years of turning people inside-out and all that are the crossroads equivalent of newborn screaming? Being destructive because of a lack of control?”

“And when things become more subtle, it’s because the force finally learned to control their own powers,” Shiro finishes. “But that still doesn’t make sense. You said the crossroads have been around for thousands of years. They already knew how to use their own powers.”

“The crossroads did,” Slav agrees. “But if my theorizing is correct—I do not think the crossroads serve themselves anymore. _Somebody_ was learning how to use that power five hundred years ago, and experimenting with the boundaries of the rules.”

Shiro hisses softly. “You’re saying five hundred years ago, the crossroads didn’t change—they were taken over by something else.”

“I am _estimating,_ based on case studies and a reasonable understanding of probability and world theory, that five hundred years ago the crossroads was _corrupted_ by something,” Slav corrects. He stares very hard at Shiro, eyes wide and unblinking.

He needn’t bother. Shiro picks up on his meaning almost immediately. “Anything that’s been corrupted can also be cleansed,” he says.

“There is a possibility of it,” Slav agrees. He looks relieved that Shiro made the connection without him spelling it out—less accountability later, Shiro supposes. “It would be difficult—the exact skills and knowledge would be needed. And of course, a force that powerful would need to be _significantly_ weakened first, so that one could strike a blow it could not defend against. But _possible._ ”

“How possible?” Shiro asks. “What do you think the probability of your theory being right actually is?”

Slav frets over the answer. That in itself genuinely shocks Shiro; Slav is usually instantly ready with a number. 

But eventually, the jink says, “I believe my reasoning is sound, based on years of research and data collection. Of course, there is no actual _proof,_ since there is of course no record of the crossroads ever successfully being attacked, or successful audits made, and they are diligent about eradicating any information regarding their weaknesses. It is possible there is additional information to counter my theories that has not yet been uncovered or has been deliberately erased.”

Shiro is tempted to tell him to get on with it, but holds his tongue. Slav is obviously working himself up to an answer. Interrupting him will just make this take longer.

“But assuming all of the information I have obtained from written and oral accounts are accurate,” Slav continues, “and there is no additional information to add, and that an audit could successfully weaken the crossroads to the point of allowing for an attack, and I am drawing the correct conclusions from the data available…” He hesitates. “I would say there is...a sixty-five point four zero five percent chance my theory of what happened to the crossroads, and how to defeat it, is accurate.”

Sixty-five percent. It’s not ideal, but it’s still better than a coin flip. And given the position both he and Pidge are currently in, Shiro’s going to have to take those odds. 

And if they _could_ succeed—cleansing the crossroads. If Slav is correct, and they _had_ been corrupted, cleansing them can only be a boon. Not just to make Lotor stop hunting him, and not just to free Pidge from her deal, but potentially for the entire _world._ Can he really, in good conscience, refuse to at least try?

“It still has a lot of moving parts we need to figure out,” Shiro says. “But it’s definitely a start. And it has potential. We could do a lot of good with this. Thank you, Slav.”

Slav shrugs, indifferent. “Don’t let them get me,” he reminds them. “I do not wish to be killed or tortured by the crossroads. And I don’t want people stealing my research!”

“I promise, I will not let them get you,” Shiro repeats. Unless he’s dead, at which point, there’s not much he can do for the researcher. “Stay indoors for a few days behind your wards to be safe, until we can get this squared away. _When_ we are successful, we’ll notify you, so you know it’s safe to go out again.”

Slav harrumphs. _“If_ you are successful,” he reminds them sternly. “There is only a sixty-five point four zero five percent chance my theory is correct, remember. Even if it is, the odds that you successfully implement it are _staggeringly_ low. As in, ‘highly unlikely.’” 

“Leave that part to us,” Shiro says. “You’ve done your part. Now just sit back and wait.”

Hopefully, wait for a victory. 

* * *

The bus ride back to Shiro’s motel is a quiet trip for all of them. 

Slav had all but thrown them out of his little safehouse the moment they’d gotten the information they needed, slamming the door behind them after reminding them for the hundredth time to _not_ let him die and to not touch anything. All of them had been fine with leaving, and the bus ride home had been a thoughtful one for all of them.

For Shiro, he can’t help but run over all the moving parts for this potential plan. Staying under the radar long enough to set everything up without Lotor catching on. Getting a crossroads ghost to voluntarily assist them in the appeal. Hoping the appeal does enough damage to launch an attack. Finding _some_ way to cleanse a force as infinite and all powerful as the _crossroads_ of a corruption that’s been settled in for more than five hundred years. Living through _all_ of it. And managing to pull it all off with a Covenant agent on his heels. 

It has a lot of moving parts, and a lot of things that could go horribly wrong. It’s also the only plan they’ve got, so they’ve got to make it work, and make their first and _only_ shot count.

Keith and Pidge are both silent on the ride back to the Snick Snack Motel. It’s probably for the best, while they are still outside the safety of the wards. Pidge is practically vibrating with the obvious desire to talk over everything they’ve discovered, but she’s also intelligent enough to hold her silence, and Keith is just quiet by nature. 

The silence ends the moment they step through the door to Shiro’s motel room, at nearly two in the morning. The moment the door is safely closed, Pidge whirls around and says, “So, what’s the plan?”

“There isn’t one yet,” Shiro admits. “There’s still a lot of details to work out. Slav gave us a good framework, but I’ll need a little time to work it through.”

“Time’s not something you have a lot of,” Keith reminds him bluntly. “At some point after four in the afternoon tomorrow, Sanda will be after you. That’ll make _whatever_ we’re doing to deal with Lotor and his ghosts a lot harder to pull off.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “I know.” He’s tempted to rub his face in frustration, but he resists. They need to see an image of someone in control and ready to handle this insurmountable problem. Keith can probably see through him and knows better, but Pidge doesn’t know Shiro well enough yet to know when he’s at his limit. 

“Just...give me some time,” he repeats. “I need time to think through this. I can figure out a solution, if I just have a few hours.” He needs time to _rest,_ so that he _can_ think through this. He’s running on empty, and his brain feels too full of information and yet too cloudy to do anything with it. His unexpected nap earlier hadn’t been enough, and after everything that’s happened today, he’s exhausted. 

Keith must pick up on it. “Alright,” he agrees slowly. “We can work with that. I can stay here to guard your back, just in case—”

“No,” Shiro interrupts. “I’m sorry Keith, but you can’t.”

“We _talked_ about this. You need backup—”

“You _can’t,_ Keith,” Shiro repeats firmly. “It’s already two in the morning. In a couple hours, the sun will rise, and you’ll be completely vulnerable. If Sanda manages to track me here, you won't be able to protect yourself during the day—and if I need to leave for supplies, she won’t hesitate to stake you while I’m out. Besides, we can’t leave Pidge alone, remember? You need to be with her until she’s safe behind wards in Allura’s penthouse.”

Keith bares his teeth in a frustrated grimace. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to, but you _do_ have to go back to the penthouse where you’ll be safe,” Shiro says. “I’ll be fine for now. Lotor doesn’t have a hold on me yet, and Sanda won’t attack until later. I appreciate your backup tonight, but it has to be this way.”

Keith crosses his arms, but although he’s stubborn, he’s not stupid. Staying would only cause problems, and he knows it. “Fine. But be careful.”

“I promise I will be,” Shiro says. “For now, you two should head back to Allura’s penthouse. Give yourself time to keep an eye out for Sanda and make sure you’re _not_ being followed before heading back. The last thing we need is Sanda knowing Allura is a notable cryptid.” 

Keith nods. “Right.”

“Don’t forget to have Allura and Coran set up ghost wards, too,” Shiro says. “As soon as you get back. Oh—and ask Coran if he can get my car back, too. I left it at the entrance to Arusian Park near the playground.” He digs into his jacket pocket for his keys, and tosses them to Keith, who snatches them easily out of the air. “It should be safe for him to go without being noticed.” 

“Sure,” Keith says. “Assuming it wasn’t towed, anyway.”

“I’ll deal with that later if it was,” Shiro says. “Pidge—don’t be _anywhere_ alone until Allura’s got the wards set up. I’m serious. If you need to use the bathroom, take Aeslin mice with you. Don’t give Ezor a chance to grab you again.”

Pidge shudders. “I’ll take the embarrassment of the mice over a crossroads mafia shakedown,” she agrees. “But you’ll...you’ll figure out what to do about my deal, right?” She swallows. “You said you could get one of the ghosts on our side, right?”

“I think so. Maybe. I still need to work out how to do it. When I have a plan, I’ll…” He pauses, then curses. “Shit. I don’t have a way to update any of you on the details. I can’t use my phone—I don’t know if Sanda had time to trace it somehow.”

Pidge scoffs. “Is _that_ all? Gimme.” She holds out her hand expectantly. Shiro, blinking in surprise, pulls his cell phone out of one of his pockets and hands it over. 

The bogeyman wastes no time pulling it apart and inspecting the case, battery, and circuitry, before putting it all back together and turning it on. She pulls several wires out of her own pockets, plugs the phone into her own, and sets to work with her oddly jointed fingers skittering over the touchscreen like a spider.

“Allura’s tech staff are bad at what they do, but they _do_ have some nice equipment,” she explains brightly, as she works. “I was able to upgrade a few things while I was there, and get some other stuff that I can use. Allura gave me full access to everything I could want. _There._ ” She unplugs her phone from Shiro’s and hands it back. “You’re officially unhackable and untraceable by anybody who isn’t as good with computers as me. Which is almost everyone. You’re welcome.”

Shiro’s brows raise in surprise. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. I didn’t see any kind of bug or virus, but this should prevent anything else. She wouldn’t be able to trace you if she managed to get a hold of your number and called or something, either.” Pidge grins widely at him, which is always a little unsettling on a bogeyman’s face. “Which means now you have no excuse to go off the radar. Plus, _I_ can still find you, even without my...outside source.”

Keith actually smiles at that. _“Great._ Now he can’t just disappear on us, even if we can’t be here to help.”

Shiro’s not exactly _thrilled_ at being so easily traced, even by his own allies. But the benefits of not being tracked by Sanda are definitely worth it. “Thank you. In that case, as soon as I have an idea of our next steps, I’ll get in touch with one of you and let you know what the plan is.” 

“But what about Sanda?” Keith asks, frowning. “Even if you come up with a plan, she’ll be after you tomorrow afternoon…”

Shiro considers. “Pidge...can _you_ trace someone else by their number?”

“Maybe,” Pidge says. “Depends on the equipment I have to use, but I’m sure I could whip something up at Allura’s penthouse. Why?”

“Sanda gave me a number to contact, if I decided to see the error of my wicked ways and go back to the Covenant,” Shiro says, blunt and devoid of emotion. “I’ll write it down for you. If you can do anything with it, let me know. It’s probably a burner phone that she’ll leave off, other than checking it at periodic intervals, but if you _can_ get an idea of where she is that’s better than nothing.”

“I can give it a shot,” Pidge agrees, eyes narrowing with determination. “I’d like to have an idea of where she is too, since she’s still hunting me.”

“Good. Let me know if you’re successful.” Shiro glances at the clock. “And on that note, you two should get moving. I want you safe behind Allura’s wards before sunrise.”

“Stay safe,” Keith warns him, as they head for the door.

“I will. You two, as well. Text me when you’re back safe,” Shiro says. 

“You got it,” Pidge agrees.

Keith heads out briefly to be sure there isn’t a Covenant hunter waiting for them, before he and Pidge slink out into the night. Both bogeymen and vampires are excellent at blending into the darkness, and Shiro’s trained Keith in Covenant skills. He’s sure they’ll both be fine. 

He’s sure, but he can’t help but worry anyway.

In the end, Shiro stays up for over an hour, despite his exhaustion. Even the hard, unrelenting bed of the Snick Snack Motel looks inviting by this point, but Shiro can’t bring himself to sleep just yet. He checks the flimsy motel locks a dozen times, goes over his supplies and weaponry a dozen times more, and finally calms enough to take a much desired shower. 

But it isn’t until he gets that quick little text from Keith’s number an hour later— _back safe, not tracked, updating Allura now—_ that Shiro finally, _finally_ lets himself flop onto the bed and fall into an exhausted doze. 

There’s a lot on his mind. Too many variables swirling through his head; too many things that could go wrong; too many still unanswered questions. But those will have to wait. For now, he needs to rest and regain his energy.

Tomorrow, the preparations begin, and one way or another, this ends.


	21. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops today has been super busy and I almost forgot to post this!

“Strategic thinking means not eating your enemies _all_ the time.”  
—Ryan, _Midnight_ _Blue-Light Special_

**_A crappy room in the Snick Snack Motel, planning to fight a force of nature_ **

Six hours of sleep aren’t ideal, with the amount of stress Shiro’s been under. It is all he’s willing to give himself, however. He needs to rest to be functional, but he is on a time limit, and he doesn’t have all day to lie around. 

Six hours  _ are  _ enough to let him at least get his thoughts in order, however, and that’s the most important part. There’s a lot of moving parts to this potential plan to keep track of, and everything needs to work perfectly if they have even a  _ shot  _ at beating the crossroads. Last night it had felt overwhelming—too much to figure out in too short a time. Now, at least, he’s able to break it down into more manageable pieces.

_ Most  _ of the plan can’t even be enacted until tonight. He can’t try to appeal Pidge’s case without Pidge there, and he definitely wants to bring a full roster of backup before attempting that. Dealing with Sanda is a problem for later, when she’s actually on the offensive; until then, she’s just going to have to be low priority.

But he can spend the day working on preparations. He needs to figure out  _ some  _ way to purify a five hundred year old corruption from a literal force of nature, and he needs to find a way to get one of the crossroads ghosts on his side. And  _ all  _ of it needs to be done without tipping Lotor off too early. If his crossroads ghosts figure out what Shiro’s doing before he’s ready to show his hand, they’ll tell Lotor, and he’ll use Pidge against them. 

Getting a crossroads ghosts on his side without the crossroads knowing sounds like it should be the harder of the tasks, but it should actually be relatively straightforward to accomplish. Shiro’s had some time to think about it, and he’s fairly confident that Acxa will be willing to help them, as long as she thinks they have a decent shot at pulling the attack off. What they really need is a way to talk to her  _ without  _ the information getting back to Lotor...and that’s something Shiro can engineer. 

He just needs the right supplies.

So the first order of business is shopping. He’s fully aware that he undoubtedly has an imaginary watcher, the moment he leaves the motel room, so he can’t buy everything he needs directly. But some things are easy enough to disguise, like buying all the fixings for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to munch on while hiding out, when all he really needs is the jar. Anything he can’t get without drawing suspicion—larger quantities of salt, semi-precious stones, white feathers, and a significant number of candles—he’ll text to Allura when he gets back to his motel room. One of the others can bring it over before they set their plan in motion. 

The motel room itself is the next order of business. It’s warded, but he’ll need to go one step further to prepare it for a ghost visitor. 

He shoves the furniture into the corner, to clear out as much floor space as possible. The room isn’t big, even with the bed, desk and nightstand crammed into one corner. But it leaves enough floor space for a summoning circle. 

He sketches it out in thick sharpie on the thin carpet, paying careful attention to each minute detail. It will need to be re-inscribed with salt, and enhanced with semi-precious stones and candles at the appropriate locations, but he doesn’t have the materials for that part just yet. This will let them save on time, when the rest of the team gets here later.

As he works, he plans. The more he thinks on it, the better he has an idea of exactly how they should tackle this. There’s still an unknown factor in Sanda, and there’s always the possibility his gut instinct on Acxa isn’t right. They’ll have to move fast, even if things  _ do  _ work like he plans, because the moment they get started they have a limited amount of time before Lotor catches on. 

But if they do it right...maybe, just maybe, they’ll all make it through this alive, in one piece, and not in cosmic debt. 

He texts the bare bones of his plans to Lance and Hunk, and after some hesitation, warns them not to tell Pidge. He trusts that Pidge is on their side, but her service is currently owned by Lotor. Acxa had warned Shiro that the crossroads had ways to compel and punish its debtors. On the off chance they had some way to contact Pidge, even if she was never left alone, there was always a possibility they could drag the information out of her by any means necessary. And if this is going to work at all, Lotor  _ cannot  _ have any forewarning. 

Lance and Hunk are obviously not happy about it, but they agree to comply. For now, that’s all Shiro needs. In a few hours, Pidge will know everything, and then it won’t matter anyway. He’s sure she’ll understand. 

Pidge certainly understands  _ something  _ is up, since she texts Shiro repeatedly to ask for news. He gives her neutral answers, and while her responses are a little crabby, she doesn’t push. She’s probably smart enough to draw the same conclusion as Shiro.

She does have other news for him, though.  _ Been watching Sanda’s phone,  _ she texts.  _ She turns it on every once and a while to check for messages. I get a ping every time she does.  _

She sends him the coordinates for each notification, which Shiro checks against a city map he pulls up on his phone. He’s relieved to find that while Sanda is definitely active throughout the day, always moving, she hasn’t come close to the penthouse, Shiro’s apartment, or any of his friends’ notable haunts. She also hasn’t come near his motel. She’s definitely hunting, but based on the way she’s moving through seedier, broken-down parts of the city, she’s hunting for a bogeyman. 

_ Hopefully she won’t find anyone else,  _ Shiro thinks to himself. Sanda is uncomfortably close to some cryptid communities, but Allura had spread the word to lay low or get out of town for a week or two. Hopefully people had listened, and were staying out of sight. 

He worries anyway. He knows he had literally nothing to do with Sanda showing up in the city, but he can’t help but feel like this is his fault, somehow. That the fact he  _ still  _ hasn’t come up with a way to deal with Sanda is on him. The fact that he’s unexpectedly homesick, and has thought more about his old family and friends since she showed up, somehow makes it feel like he’s not  _ trying  _ hard enough. Like he’s still a terrible person that hasn’t really changed. The guilt it stirs up in him is awful.

_ One problem at a time,  _ he tells himself fiercely. Lotor first. Deal with the crossroads tonight. After tonight, he’ll have gotten it out of the way and his attention won’t be divided, or he’ll be dead and it won’t matter anymore.

Which brings him back to the second set of preparations he can try to deal with: figuring out how, exactly, to purify an entity like the crossroads.

There are a lot of different ways to purify people and places, and Shiro’s studied most of them. Exorcisms for ghosts and poltergeists are one of the simplest missions to start junior Covenant agents on, and Shiro had plenty of practice when he was still with the organization. Covenant training had drilled him in Western demonic exorcisms, and his parents had trained him in Eastern purification rites and ceremonies. Between the two of them he’s gotten very good at making unwelcome, non-corporeal visitors go away. 

That’s fortunate, because he’ll have to play this one by ear. He doesn’t have any of his reference materials or journals, all of which are securely locked in the apartment he can’t go back to until Sanda is dealt with. Experience is all he has to work with. It will have to be enough.

Fortunately, exorcisms aren’t reliant on magic or religion, and they don’t require complicated sigils or memorizing complex languages. What they  _ really  _ need isn’t belief, but  _ willpower.  _ Practitioners back in the day, be they Shinto priests or Christian ones, could harness the strength of their beliefs and convert it to willpower for purification purposes. But as long as the right preparations are made and the proper techniques are used, anyone with the right mental fortitude can succeed in exorcising a person or place.

Shiro’s never tried to exorcise an  _ entity  _ before, but he’s sure the basic theory still applies. The real question is, does he have the willpower to go up against something powerful enough to corrupt a force of nature? 

He’s going to have to bet on the answer being ‘yes.’ He can’t allow himself to consider the alternatives. 

By the time he finishes inscribing the summoning and containment circles in sharpie on the carpet and making as many preparations as possible, it’s only about two thirty in the afternoon. They won’t be able to put his plan into action until after dark, since they’ll definitely want Keith along to bolster their attack force. 

There’s nothing else he can do to prepare but overthink things and second-guess himself. There isn’t even enough room left to run through basic katas or exercises, with the furniture crammed to one side and the circle on the other. So he does the one thing left he can do, and forces himself to take a nap. He’s going to need to be at the top of his game tonight, mentally and physically, and he can’t afford to reduce his chances because of exhaustion. 

When he wakes at seven, he’s actually surprised he managed to sleep at all. He thought he’d be too nervous to rest, but he’s glad it worked out. The sun is thinking about setting soon, and not long after they’ll be getting ready to put their plan into motion.

That’s good, but a glance at the clock also causes a shiver to run down his spine. His twenty-four hours are done. Sanda will be officially looking for him now—she may have been for the past few hours, even. 

Pidge’s text updates on coordinates indicate she’s still not close, and Shiro figures he’ll have a few hours more until he needs to deal with that problem. Garrison is a big city, and both he and Sanda are aware he has the home team advantage. But Covenant agents are trained to be excellent hunters, and Sanda is one of the best. She  _ will  _ find him eventually; it’s only a matter of time.

All he can hope for is that he’s able to finish off their business with the crossroads before that happens.

The team arrives at his motel room promptly at eight, driving up in his (thankfully not towed, retrieved car) and parking in his allotted space, while the last rays of the sun still dwindle on the edge of the horizon. Lance, Hunk and Pidge are alert and wary, talking amongst themselves about any signs of someone tailing them as they pile out of the vehicle.

“I think we’re clear,” Lance reports helpfully. “I kept an eye on our rearview the whole time.”

“And according to my tracking, Sanda’s on the other side of town,” Pidge adds. “So probably no interference from her just yet.”

“I also brought dinner,” Hunk says, waving a canvas lunch bag with one of his hands. “For you, me, and Pidge at least. I put together some sandwiches. Lance ate before we left, and Keith...well, Keith has his. He’s not all there yet, I think, but I’m pretty sure he’ll get around to drinking it.”

Hunk’s other hand is occupied by helpfully leading Keith along by the shoulder, while Keith possessively clings to a thermos mug of what is no doubt blood. He’s bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt and wraparound sunglasses, and his slightly stumbling, drunken gait suggests he’s not quite out of his sun-caused stupor yet. They’d probably been waiting for the moment he rolled out of bed naturally before herding him towards the car, knowing time was limited, even if it meant leading him out into late sunset.

“Thanks. Everyone in, hurry.” Shiro opens the door wide, and everyone ducks inside as fast as possible, aware of the dangers of being out in the open. He closes and bolts the door shut as soon as the last of them slips inside, checks and double-checks the blinds are securely fastened, and turns to face them.

_ “Now  _ can I finally know what’s going on?” Pidge asks, crossing her arms with a scowl. “I’m guessing you couldn’t tell me anything since it might get back to Lotor if something went wrong, but I’m getting  _ real  _ tired of being in the dark here.”

“Mmm,” Keith agrees, still sounding half asleep. He’s taken a spot as far as possible from the drawn blinds, and still has his sunglasses and hoodie on, obviously sensitive to even the little bit of sunlight left. 

“We didn’t get to fill either of them in on what was happening,” Lance says, as he hefts a backpack off his shoulders onto the mattress. “We couldn’t explain to Keith without Pidge hearing on the way over. Sorry, Pidge.” 

“I get it,” Pidge concedes. “As long as you tell me  _ now.  _ I can’t help with the plan if I’m not a part of it.”

“We’ll tell you everything,” Shiro agrees. “There’s no turning back now. Keith, drink your blood, it’ll help you wake up faster.”

Keith grumbles, but obediently takes a sip from the thermos still clutched possessively in his hands. 

“Same goes for you,” Hunk says, unpacking the canvas bag he’d brought and shoving a tupperware in Shiro’s direction. “Well, I mean, minus the waking up part. I made you a sandwich, and I’ve got some juice here. We can eat while we discuss the plan, and then get to work on it.”

“I’ll unpack the stuff you asked for,” Lance adds, briefly hefting the backpack he’d tossed on the bed. “All the things you texted Allura about.”

“Good.” They were as ready as they were ever going to get. Now all they have to do is finish putting everything together, and get started.

Shiro sketches out his plan in full as he eats. “We’ve got two goals tonight. The first is getting Acxa on our side. The second is working with her to set an appeal on the crossroads to weaken them. Once we’ve successfully appealed, I’ll tackle purifying the crossroads of whatever’s corrupting them while they’re down. That should get Pidge out of trouble when her bargain gets negated, and keep Lotor from coming after us in the future.”

Pidge looks thoughtful. “Acxa? She didn’t say much during my deal. What makes you think she’ll be on our side?”

“Because she tried to warn me away from dealing,” Shiro says. “Between that and some of the looks she gave me...I’m not sure she’s happy with how Lotor currently handles things. If I can get a chance to talk to her, I think I can convince her to join us and broker your appeal.”

“That’s what all this stuff is for, right?” Lance asks, as he busily unpacks bags of crystals and containers of salt, and upends boxes of tapered candles onto the bedspread. 

“Most of it,” Shiro agrees. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but we’re going to trap her inside the ghost wards in a containment circle long enough to talk to her.” He gestures to the sharpie circle on the floor. “Behind two sets of wards, Lotor won’t be able to listen in on anything she sees or hears.”

“But he will notice if she’s gone,” Pidge says. 

Shiro nods. “That’s why we’ll have a distraction in place when we get started,” he says. “Coran’s agreed to head down to a different set of crossroads to keep Lotor busy while we kidnap one of his ghosts. We’ll let him know when we’re ready to go, and he’ll make sure we’ve got enough time to talk to Acxa without Lotor knowing about it.”

Hunk frowns, and his snakes hiss as they sense his agitation. “I still don’t really like that part,” he says. “I mean...you said this Lotor guy is  _ convincing.  _ What if he gets Coran to make a deal anyway? Even if Coran goes in planning to not?  _ You  _ didn’t want to make a deal either and you almost did anyway.”

“Coran knows the risks,” Shiro says. “And he’s tougher than you think. As long as he doesn’t agree to anything, Lotor can’t do anything to him, and he can hide behind Allura’s ghost wards when it’s done.” 

Hunk hesitates, but after a moment he nods. “Okay.”

“The bigger problem is that once Acxa is on our side, we’ll have to move fast,” Shiro says. “Coran can only keep Lotor distracted for so long. I have a way to keep Acxa hidden from him on our way to a serviceable crossroads, so he won’t be able to pick up on our exact plans. But the longer we take, the more of a chance he has to notice one of his servants is missing. So once we start, we’re in for the long haul. There’s no backing out. Got it?”

“No pressure or anything,” Lance says under his breath.

“You don’t like it, leave,” Keith says, snappish. 

“Hey, I didn’t say I was out!” Lance says. “If Shiro needs my help, I’m in. But this isn’t like fighting an incubus or werelions. This is some kind of infinite cosmic force. That’s a little too big for me to bite, so I’m not really sure what one little chupacabra like me is supposed to do about it.”

Keith looks ready to fire back, but Shiro interrupts before he can. “Enough. Lance—you won’t need to worry about the crossroads, anyway. That goes for all of you. What I want you focusing on when we make our move is protecting Pidge and myself—and Acxa—from the other crossroads ghosts.”

As one, they stare at him. After a moment, Pidge says, “Wait,  _ what?”  _

“Just because Acxa will hopefully be on our side, doesn’t mean the others will be,” Shiro says. “By my count, that’s three angry crossroads ghosts that are going to be doing their best to interrupt the appeal and protect their master. Pidge will obviously have to be involved in her own appeal, and I need to be ready to strike with the exorcism the moment Lotor is weakened. We’ll need Acxa to focus on keeping us there and doing her job. That means Hunk, Keith and Lance will need to defend us.”

“I’m ready to fight,” Keith says. He sounds more coherent now, which means he’s starting to shake his sun daze, and after a moment he finally slips his sunglasses off. That’s good, because Shiro will need him for this first part too.

“We just gotta hold’em off?” Lance asks. “Because last time fighting a ghost didn’t work out so good, and these guys are way stronger, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Hunk agrees. “Nothing I can do would hurt a ghost. I can’t stun’em, and they’re not scared of my snakes.”

“They’re more...solid in Oriande,” Pidge says. “You could maybe hurt them? I don’t know if it would work or not.”

“We just need to buy time,” Shiro says. “That’s the goal. Buy me and Pidge time to deal the finishing blow on Lotor.” It’s not a  _ great  _ plan, but it’s the only plan they have, and the only one that stands even a remote chance of being successful. 

Lance crosses his arms and sighs. “Well, it’s too late to back out now, anyway. It’s too bad we don’t have time to recruit anybody else to even our odds, though.”

Hunk nods feverishly in agreement. “Another person would be really helpful,” he says. “I’m not sure how much I can do to help. Not that I’m gonna back out now! I mean, I’d really  _ like  _ to, the crossroads sound scary. But I won’t, because then you’d be three on two, and I kinda don’t want you guys to die.” 

More fighters  _ would  _ be helpful, but it would also be suspicious. Shiro had considered calling up Griffin and recruiting a few of his werelions, but had decided against it. Acxa could move a few people to Oriande under the grounds of the appeal, but he doubts she could bring half an army with her, and Lotor would be on his guard immediately. 

“We’ll work with what we’ve got,” Shiro says, as he finishes off the last of his sandwich. “We’re on the clock. Every second we waste is another second Sanda might catch up with me or Pidge. We need to take care of the crossroads  _ tonight.”  _

The team nods in agreement. “Just tell us what to do,” Pidge says, eyes narrowed in determination. “I want to be free already.” 

Shiro explains how to trace the sharpie lines he’d sketched on the floor with salt, and the team sets to work with a will. With four people pouring salt, the work goes fast. It also lets him devote his time to setting up the semi-precious stones in cradles of salt at specific intervals, placing candles at opposing angles, and setting feathers and incense as needed. He talks as he works, explaining a few more details and intricacies to the plan, so that everyone is on the same page.

Within half an hour the summoning circle is ready to go. Shiro gives it a thorough once over, smoothing lines as needed and carefully adjusting candles and stones with the tiniest, precise nudges. The circle needs to be perfect, because if it isn’t, their ghost will be escaping before they’re ready to let her out. Time is of the essence, but an extra few seconds to make sure things are done correctly are never wasted.

When he deems it as good as it’s going to get, he looks up at the others. “Ready?”

The four of them nod in acknowledgement, and Lance says, “Call him.”

Shiro obligingly dials Coran’s number, heart thudding in his chest. Coran picks up halfway through the first ring, clearly waiting for this call. “Everything set?”

“We’re good to go, Coran,” Shiro says. “All we need is the distraction.”

“Excellent!” Coran says. He sounds almost jovial, like he’s excited about the mission...not as though he’s about to attempt something extremely dangerous. “Give me twenty minutes from the moment I hang up, and I guarantee I’ll have him good and distracted for you.”

“Thanks, Coran,” Shiro says. “And...be careful. Even knowing you’re going in without intending to make a deal, he’s still...very convincing. Don’t get distracted, and don’t let Narti mess with your head.”

“I’ll be fine, Shiro,” Coran promises. Although the jovial note is still there, there’s an undercurrent of seriousness to it. Coran is ex-military. He understands the danger, but he also understands walking into it willingly for a good cause. “I daresay I have the easier job, anyway. I think I’ll pretend to ask for a way to guarantee protection for Allura—that should be convincing, don’t you think?”

“With a Covenant agent in town? Definitely believable,” Shiro admits. “Be safe, Coran.”

“Of course. You as well, and the rest of them,” Coran says, and hangs up.

Shiro takes a deep breath. “Twenty minutes on the clock,” he says. “Keith—you’re on in fifteen. No turning back now, for any of us.”

Every single one of them looks grim. Not a one of them tries to back down. Not for the first time, Shiro is glad they’re on his side, backing him up. 

Each minute ticks past alarmingly slowly. The anxiety in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife, but while everyone fidgets nervously, toys with their phones, or glances repeatedly at the door, nobody says a word. Fifteen minutes count down in near silence, other than the agitated hissing of Hunk’s hair, before Shiro finally cuts through the quiet with a sharp, “Keith. You’re on. Don’t forget your lunch bag.”

Keith nods grimly, accepts the canvas bag from Hunk, slings the strap over his shoulder, and slips out the front door without a word.

That’s the moment when  _ Shiro  _ starts to feel the pressure of the anxiety in the room. Keith is well trained, and he can take care of himself. But even for the few minutes this will take, he’s on his own out there, with a hunting Covenant agent  _ and  _ a malevolent force of nature that’s no doubt spying on them. Shiro doesn’t like letting anyone out of his sight when he can’t be sure he can protect them...but if this is going to work, he’s going to have to trust everyone to handle themselves without his supervision.

Still, the last five minutes go almost unbearably slowly, before Pidge finally announces, “Twenty on the dot. Go time.”

Shiro heads for the door immediately. “Stay inside, but be ready to run if this goes bad,” he warns over his shoulder. The three of them nod solemnly.

He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for just a moment.  _ Focus.  _ Once he steps out that door, there’s no going back. Everyone’s lives will be gambled on Slav’s theoretical hunch, and whether or not they live through it depends entirely on his ability to see it through.

Setting his shoulders with determination, he steps through the door, and out into the motel parking lot.

He doesn’t go too far—to the back end of his car, away from the motel door lights, enough to be comfortably secure in the fresh evening shadows. He pauses a moment as though considering, sits gently against his car’s bumper, and calls softly, “Acxa. I want to renegotiate my deal.”

She appears in front of him immediately, staring at him for a long moment before crossing her arms. “I thought you were smarter than this. Perhaps you are a fool after all.”

“That, or Pidge is very convincing,” Shiro answers coldly, staring her in the eye. 

Acxa doesn’t actually need to breathe, as a ghost, but her tired sigh is shockingly convincing anyway. “I don’t determine the tasks my master sets. It was her own fault for reaching out to you.”

“Which your master told her to do.”

Acxa gives him a cool look. “I am not here to discuss another debtor’s deal. You called to discuss yours. As I warned you last time, the terms of the deal may change depending on my master’s will. It may not be the same as the one we discussed yesterday.”

“That’s alright,” Shiro says. “I had a different set of terms in mind.”

The shadows move. There’s no noise and no warning, but suddenly Keith is  _ there,  _ lunging out of the darkness with preternatural speed from behind Acxa. 

She’s equal to that. Some otherworldly sense, crossroads-granted undoubtedly, warns her of his presence at the last minute. She whirls, eyes narrowed, and reaches out to block the strike.

But Keith doesn’t lash out with a knife, or a fist, but a jar—a hastily rinsed out jam jar, covered in sharpie sigils. Acxa makes a choked noise of recognition, and fades to near intangibility as she aborts the fight in favor of running back to whatever plane of existence she’d come from. But even as a supernatural ghost, she simply can’t outclass the speed of a vampire. 

Very few things in the world could. 

The jar slices through her intangible skin. Acxa shrieks, an angry, frustrated noise, and dissolves into a thick, glittering mist that whirls into the depths of the jar. Keith slaps the cover back on and twists it closed with finality. 

“Nice catch,” Shiro says, as they both stare down at the strawberry jam jar and its angrily whirling contents. 

“She almost got away,” Keith says. “Even  _ with  _ five minutes to find a spot to ambush from.”

“But you were still faster,” Shiro says, nudging his shoulder with a proud smile. “I knew you would be. I was willing to bet on it.”

Keith hesitates, but then grins back at him. “Thanks. Now we just hope the rest works.”

They let themselves back inside the motel room. The other three are gathered near the blinds, trying to peek through without looking suspicious from the outside, but they immediately face the door when Shiro and Keith re-enter. “Did you ghostbust her?” Lance asks excitedly. 

“Yes,” Keith says. “And you owe me five bucks. It didn’t look anything like the movie.”

_ “Lame,”  _ Hunk says dejectedly.

“You guys know nothing about those movies are real or accurate,” Pidge says, adjusting her glasses. “Half of the horror movies and novels out there are borderline offensive.”

“And the other half are really funny,” Lance says. “It’s hysterical how much humans get wrong.”

“Can we discuss this later?” Shiro says, as he takes the jar from Keith. “We’re on a timetable, here.”

“Right. Sorry.” Hunk grins at him sheepishly. “I banter when I’m nervous. And I’m like, really, really nervous right now.”

“We’re going to be fine,” Shiro promises, squeezing past them towards the salt-inscribed containment circle on the floor. “Just remember...let me do the talking, and don’t reveal anything until we know she’s on our side.” 

Lance makes a zipping motion across his lips. “You got it, boss.” 

Everyone else backs up as much as possible to give Shiro room to work—not easy to do, in the small confines of the motel room, where most of the remaining floorspace consists of ghost wards. Lance helpfully sticks himself to the wall to clear space, and the rest of them settle down on the bed or desk in the corner. 

Shiro takes his place right next to the circle. He reaches over the outer line, sets the home-made spirit jar down carefully in the middle, and takes a deep breath. As fast as he can, he pops the top off of the jar and whips his hands back across the line to safety, before the ghost can start to leave. If any part of his body is crossing the line when Acxa emerges, the circle will be considered broken, and she’ll be able to escape. She’ll still be trapped in the motel room as long as the other wards are active, but she’ll have a lot more opportunity to wreak havoc and attack them.

He manages to just get his fingertips across the line by the time the glittering mist begins to emerge from the spirit jar. It slithers free, slowly at first, whirling and formless, but gradually solidifying until Acxa is crouched in the center of the circle.

Shiro gives her credit: she doesn’t waste a second. The moment she’s free she hurls herself at Shiro with a snarl. The circle holds, and she slams off of an invisible wall with a grunt of surprise. Her eyes drop immediately to the floor, studying quickly, and her fingers run the entire circuit of the wards, checking for breaks. She finds none, and the wards hold. 

“What is the meaning of this?” she snaps. Her glare turns on him, and the thousands of miles of endless roads trapped inside them flash past furiously. “My master will have your head the moment they realize I’m gone.”

“I’m sorry about the ward,” Shiro says—and he does genuinely mean it. “I wanted an opportunity to talk to you  _ without  _ your master eavesdropping. I just wanted to make sure nobody got hurt doing so.”

“You put me in a spirit jar,” she says angrily, hands on hips. 

“Only for a few minutes,” Shiro says. “And it doesn’t hurt you at all. Nor do I have any intention of hurting you.”

“My master  _ will  _ know about this. There is no way to talk to me without talking to the crossroads.”

“When there’s two ghost wards in effect, and your master is otherwise preoccupied, there is,” Shiro says. 

Acxa’s angry bluster dissipates slowly. “I...perhaps,” she concedes, after a moment. “But there’s no point in talking to just  _ me. _ My purpose is to broker a deal, and you need my master for that. All capturing me will do is anger them.”

“That’s not the only thing crossroads ghosts can do,” Shiro says. “Though I’m guessing you haven’t handled your other role in a while, the way your master treats the job currently.” 

She frowns, but says nothing.

“We’ll come back to that in a minute,” Shiro says. “I wanted to ask you something, Acxa. Why do you keep trying to warn me out of taking a deal?”

She opens her mouth for a moment in surprise, and then looks away, expression hardening again into cool professionalism. “You are mistaken. I broker deals. You must have misunderstood me.”

“You called me a fool for calling you back just now,” Shiro points out. “Yesterday, you told me to my face that if I was smart, I wouldn’t call you again. And when I first called you for a deal, you gave me a look that I swear was pity.”

Acxa says nothing.

“I think,” Shiro says conversationally, “That you aren’t actually a fan of how Lotor is running things these days. He doesn’t run the show like he used to a few hundred years ago, hm?”

Acxa gives him a sharp look. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’re aware that something about the crossroads... _ changed... _ about five hundred years ago,” Shiro says. “It was broken somehow, wasn’t it? Corrupted?”

Acxa says nothing, but her stare is intense. She eyes the rest of the team behind him like a cornered rat eyes a pack of hungry cats. One of her walking boots scuffs at the salt lines in the circle, but uselessly. Although she can affect solidity in almost any other circumstance, her body becomes incorporeal in the presence of the wards. 

Shiro will take her evasiveness as a definitive ‘yes.’ So far, so good—Slav had been right on at least one count. 

“Acxa,” he says, slow and careful. “If we had a way to put things back the way they were—would you help us?”

Her gaze whips back to him quickly. Her focus is laser intensive, but her eyes are wide with shock. “How?” she asks. 

Shiro shakes his head. “I can’t tell you until I know you’re with us,” he says. “I’m sorry, but if I’ve read you wrong and you’re just going to run back to Lotor with a warning message, I don’t want to give away the plan. If you  _ are  _ on our side, I’m sure you understand my caution. Our options against a force like that are already limited.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. “Limited? Try impossible. The crossroads cannot be defeated by a few mortals. If I were to cross my master over a pointless rebellion, the punishment would be...indescribable.” She shudders. 

“It isn’t impossible,” Shiro says. “We have a plan. It’s a good one. We would need your help to make it work, but it  _ can  _ be done.”

“And you would kill…” She hesitates a moment. “I suppose since you know my master as Lotor, I’ll refer to him as such. Regardless, I  _ won’t  _ help a Covenant agent kill him.”

“Ex-Covenant,” Shiro corrects automatically. “And we won’t kill him. The problem isn’t the crossroads. It’s whatever corrupted the crossroads.  _ That’s  _ our target.”

She gives him an incredulous look, and glances back to his companions, all of whom stare steadily back. “You’re serious,” she says, after a moment. “You really think you—mere mortals—are strong enough to purify a force as powerful as the  _ crossroads?”  _

“Yes,” Shiro says. “We can.  _ I  _ can.” And at her disbelieving expression, he adds, “Look, you were all scared of me for a  _ reason  _ when I first showed up. You vetted me at the door to Oriande. Your friends thought I was enough of a threat to consider killing me there. There’s a  _ reason  _ Lotor wants me to work for him so badly. Sure, I’d be a useful pawn...but I think it’s more that he doesn’t want me as an enemy. Am I wrong?”

She gives him a long, searching look, and the thousands of miles of open, endless roads in her eyes threaten to overwhelm him. But then she says, slowly, “You never did intend to deal yesterday, did you?”

“Not at all,” Shiro says. “Though, Lotor almost had me anyway.”

“Yes,” she sighs. “He is very good at being... _ convincing. _ ” 

That’s the understatement of the year.

“I was right about you too, though,” she says, after a long moment. “You are different from any other debtor that’s ever come to us. And you...aren’t wrong. About my master’s assumptions about you, or your...theory.” 

“Then does that mean you’ll help us?”

“You really have a plan to...to  _ heal  _ my master?” Acxa asks softly. 

“We do. It just needs a willing crossroads ghost to assist,” Shiro promises.

Acxa is silent for a long time, staring over Shiro’s shoulder at the wall behind him. Somehow, he has a feeling her mind is a million miles away, even farther than the endless miles of roads in her eyes can ever take her.

Finally she speaks. “It wasn’t always like this,” she says, and her voice sounds just as far away as her gaze. “I died over a thousand years ago. I was an outcast. Half-human, half-ghoul. That sort of thing wasn’t looked well on back then.”

Shiro can only imagine. Humans in the dark ages would have feared ‘monsters’ even more than some did now, and that sort of fear usually led to torches, pitchforks, and murder. Crossroads ghosts don’t bear the remains of their deaths on their bodies unless they choose to appear that way, but Shiro has a feeling he knows how Acxa died regardless. And violent or cruel deaths often lead to poltergeists.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says. “That wasn’t right.”

She shrugs. “My master...Lotor...offered me an opportunity in death. Instead of being bound to the earth by my torment, I could serve him. I could search the world for people in need of his help, and guide them to my him. He didn’t care about the circumstances of my birth. He needed fair souls. Just souls. Souls that understood all walks of life, and could speak for all walks of life in turn.” 

She finally looks away from the wall, meeting everyone’s eyes in turn. “It was different then. The bargains were...they were still hard. They were costly. Only the desperate would reach out to the crossroads, or the fearful, or the people who had no place else to go. But they were  _ fair.  _ Both sides benefitted. There was  _ balance.  _

“I...I actually enjoyed my job, then. It felt like, even if my life was an awful thing, in death I could make a difference. I found the people who  _ needed  _ my master. I spoke for them. And he treated them fairly. I was a guide. We all were.”

She closes her eyes, hiding those thousands of miles of road away. “But something...happened. He changed. The deals became harsher. They were fair in letter, but not in spirit. More was taken than was given, and the gifts were cruel. If we spoke for the people who came to him...well. There were more of us, once. They...vanished. The rest of us, we changed to survive. We aren’t guides anymore. We’re con artists and prisoners.” 

When she opens her eyes again, the endless miles in them blur faster, more frenzied. “If you have a way to get my master back, Shirogane,” she says, “then yes. I’ll help you. I’ll do  _ anything  _ to save him. The  _ real  _ him.”

Shiro holds her gaze for a long moment. She stares back unflinchingly _.  _

“Welcome to the team,” he says, and reaches out with his foot to scuff the ward, breaking the circle.

This is the real test. Acxa still wouldn’t be able to escape, if she wanted to; the wards on the motel room are enough to see to that. But she could still attack. If she did, Shiro has a consecrated blade handy for an emergency...at least long enough to distract her, until Keith can get her back in the spirit jar. 

But plan B doesn’t come to pass. Acxa steps over the salt line, but only to step closer to the rest of the team. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief as she settles into their little huddle, giving Lance on the wall only one puzzled look and Keith a nod of acknowledgement, before crossing her arms. “Well? What’s the plan to save my master, then?”

Everyone exchanges looks for a moment, before Pidge finally speaks up for the first time. “I need to appeal my deal,” she says. “And I need a good ghost lawyer to pull it off.”

It takes the better part of a half hour to explain the full plan to Acxa from start to finish. Shiro is careful not to reveal Slav as his source for information on the crossroads, and the others are careful to skirt around that information as well. Thankfully, Acxa doesn’t ask where it comes from; she’s understandably more concerned about the plan as a whole.

“It could work,” she concedes, when they finish. “If everything goes perfectly, it could work. I can argue the case for your appeal—I agree there is a failure to deliver there.” She nods to Pidge. “But understand this: if my master  _ does  _ possess the information regarding the whereabouts of your father and brother, the most I can do is force him to grant it. It will not weaken him as much as you hope. And he will almost certainly destroy me afterwards, for daring to utilize the strength of an appeal against him.” 

“And none of the other ghosts would want to help us?” Lance says. “I mean, if they liked how Lotor handled everything before he got all crazy and possessed, wouldn’t they want to help us put things back?”

Acxa shakes her head. “They are afraid of him,” she admits. “Of the four of us left, I have served Lotor the longest. I understand the kindness and balance he was capable of. They knew it, but they’ve seen his cruelty far more. They’ve adapted to match...and I doubt they would risk their own existence to cross him, knowing what he is capable of now.”

“Is there really a chance he  _ could  _ know where my dad and brother are?” Pidge asks, frowning.

“It is...possible,” Acxa admits. “It is not uncommon for my master to withhold information, so that he can keep debtors bound to him indefinitely. When a debt is paid, he has merely to drop hints of further information, and most of them will ask for it again.”

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Shiro says. “This is our only chance, and Pidge is our only case that we have to appeal. We don’t have time to try and track down anyone else and figure out if they got what they asked for, even if Acxa fed us the names.”

“Which I could not do, regardless, even if I was willing to,” Acxa adds. “I am bound by the laws of the crossroads to not speak of a deal to parties that are unaware. The only reason I can talk about  _ this  _ deal at all is because you’ve brought it up first and are already aware.”

“I mean...at least they respect confidentiality,” Hunk mutters.

“Is there anything else you can give us to make sure this plan works?” Shiro asks. 

“Some,” Acxa says. “I will maintain the appeal, but when it comes to your exorcism, you must do it in the cradle of Lotor’s power, or it will not be as strong. If the goal is to heal my master, then you must force balance where there is imbalance.” 

“And where is that exactly?” Shiro asks, although he has a sudden sinking feeling he already knows.

Acxa blinks at him, as if it were obvious. “In the fields, of course. The power—the stolen forces and energy—all of it resides in the cornfields.”

“The  _ cornfields?”  _ Keith asks, incredulous. Hunk and Lance look equally confused.

But Pidge’s grayish pallor grows paler, and Shiro’s sinking feeling drops even further. “You’re kidding.”

“Am I missing something?” Lance asks. “What’s so bad about corn? I mean... _ I’m  _ never gonna eat it, obviously, but I know humans like it.”

“This isn’t normal corn,” Shiro says. He remembers that dark miasma sunk deeply into the fields, and that awful feeling that if he wandered off the path the crossroads provided, he would never come back. There were powers at play in that field that his puny human mind couldn’t begin to comprehend. 

He has no desire to wander into those fields...but apparently he’s going to have to, if he wants this to succeed. “Fine,” he says curtly. “But I’ll have to go alone.” Which is an even more frightening prospect, but he can’t risk the rest of them suffering whatever fate the fields have in store. “Everyone else will need to keep the ghosts off my back long enough for me to set up and get started, just like we discussed.”

They don’t look happy about it. Keith looks ready to argue against the call, loudly and insistently. But there’s nothing they can do to help with the exorcism itself, as they had already discussed  _ repeatedly.  _ The best they can do is keep anything from interrupting or distracting him so he can focus on the most complicated task of the night: going toe to toe with a literal force of nature.

“That brings me to another point,” Acxa says, hand on one hip. “Keeping my...coworkers at bay will be difficult, with the force you have.”

“It’s just three ghosts,” Keith says. “We’ll be on even terms.” 

But Acxa shakes her head. “They’re a force to be reckoned with. Don’t take them lightly. Besides having the powers of a crossroads ghost—powers that will be  _ stronger  _ in Oriande, remember—each of them was selected for additional skills or abilities. Lotor reached out to the downtrodden, but he also reached out to those of us who had buried strengths that could aid him.”

“I know Narti has some kind of compulsion ability,” Shiro notes. “Either a half-succubus, or some kind of magic user, right?”

Acxa nods. “Narti was a witch in life,” she says softly.

“What kind? Routewitch? Trainspotter?”

“A  _ full  _ witch,” Acxa says curtly. “A blind woman with unimaginable powers for the era she lived in...it was hardly a wonder the humans around her feared her, and killed her for it. Lotor saw her potential and accepted her as one of his own.”

Shiro’s heart skips a beat at that. A full witch, one with no modifiers or restrictions, was an incredibly rare phenomenon. In death, Narti’s powers would be limited to some degree, but that would still make her incredibly dangerous. Across the room, Pidge actually gulps, and Shiro knows she understands just how dangerous a full witch is as well.

“Keeping her distracted will be paramount,” Shiro says. “We can’t give her an opportunity to cast, or to try and get into our heads.” The others nod, solemn. “What about the others?”

“Zethrid is half sasquatch,” Acxa says. “Physically, she’s very strong, and has a great deal of endurance. Even without crossroads powers, she is a formidable opponent. Ezor is half bogeyman, which makes her nimble and flexible, and gives her a surprisingly strong grip. Don’t let her grab you.”

Pidge gives her an odd, thoughtful look at that, but says nothing.

“We’ll take this information into consideration when playing defense against the crossroad ghosts,” Shiro promises. “Anything else to add?”

She shakes her head. “No. But we’ll need to move quickly. Even if your companion is distracting my master, it won’t hold forever. It’s not unheard of for us to leave and attend to errands or to search for potential debtors, but the longer I’m gone, the more likely he is to notice and act.”

“Then we’ll go now,” Shiro says. “Everyone, put out the candles and get ready to go. There’s an intersection three blocks from here that should work—”

“No.”

Shiro blinks in the middle of putting out one of the summoning circles’ candles. “No?” he asks, turning to face Acxa again.

“No,” she repeats. “For this to work, you cannot use just any crossroads. If you wish for me to weaken my master with an appeal, I must have access to the most powerful crossroads available to us...a place where Oriande is closest. Only then will I be able to transport so many, and to have the strength to maintain an appeal.”

Shiro has a gut feeling he knows where this is heading. “And where would that be?”

Acxa sighs. “Ideally, one of the most infamous crossroads would be best,” she says. “There are several of them in legends across the country, usually places of infamy...execution grounds and hanging trees. Places where souls disappear if left unattended, and where death and life inextricably meet.” 

“Garrison City doesn’t have a place like that,” Keith says bluntly. 

“No,” Acxa agrees. “Which is why places of the accidental joining of death and life are the next best bet. Your instincts were right when you first called for a deal, Shirogane. The crossroads we first met at is the most powerful this city has to offer, and my best chance for gaining the power I need to arbitrate an appeal against my master.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Then Hunk says slowly, “Isn’t that the place where Shiro also ran into that scary Covenant lady?”

“It is,” Shiro says curtly. “Which may make things a lot more complicated.”


	22. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Seven

“Fear is natural. It’s a close cousin of respect, and between the two, we don’t forget this isn’t our world.”   
—Alex Price,  _ Half-Off Ragnarok _

**_The most powerful crossroads in Garrison City, close to midnight, really hoping for no interruptions_ **

Shiro takes a deep breath as he slides his car into an available parking space two blocks over from their destination. It’s the closest thing he’d been able to find, even at quarter to midnight. 

“We’re here,” he announces to the group at large. “Everyone...keep your eyes peeled, and stay sharp.” He glances over his shoulder to each team member he’s assembled, and each one nods mutely back.

Acxa is currently stored away safely in one of Shiro’s pouches, back in his home-made spirit jar. She hadn’t been thrilled at the idea, but it was the only way to keep her off Lotor’s radar and safely with them until go time. If she left the protection of the wards and returned to Oriande until she was needed, there was a chance Lotor could pick up on her intentions and prevent her from getting back to them. Even if she came with them manually in the car, there was a chance the crossroads could figure out she wasn’t arbitrating a bargain, and steal her away. Without a crossroads ghost on their side, the whole plan was sunk, so she had grudgingly agreed to willingly return to the jar for the time it would take to travel to the crossroads they needed.

The rest of them are piled in the car with him, though. Hunk has the front passenger seat, mostly since he’s nervous, and when he’s nervous his hair tends to get twitchy. The snakes are hidden beneath his illusory headband while out in public, but that doesn’t mean they can’t bite if they pick up on Hunk’s anxiety enough to strike. Lance, Pidge and Keith are wedged into the backseat, nervous but ready to fight regardless.

Shiro is honestly impressed with their resolve. The plan had already been shaky before Acxa had added her own knowledge to the mix. Now there were so many variables to try and keep track of, it will be a miracle if they actually succeed. Shiro can’t back down, not if he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life being hunted by an otherworldly force, and Pidge has her own stake in this battle. But Keith, Lance and Hunk had no obligation to be here, facing down a nearly hopeless battle, and yet here they were anyway. 

“What’s Sanda’s status?” Shiro asks.

Pidge checks her phone. “Still across town,” she says. “Signal last turned on half an hour ago. We should be clear.”

They should be, but Shiro’s not willing to take it easy, even so. While it  _ is  _ possible she’s started her search elsewhere, based on Covenant protocol, Sanda is no fool. The intersection they were bound for was the one place she had a confirmed sighting of him. There weren’t many residential buildings in the area, which meant she could easily draw the conclusion that he was there for something else. If she’s hunting him, staking out the area and seeing if he returns for whatever his intention had been would be a great way to catch him. 

“Be on guard anyway,” Shiro warns. “I don’t like having to come back here. It’s too obvious.”

“My tracking program is flawless,” Pidge protests. “There’s no way she could hoodwink my code. I know she’s not a hacker—you said yourself.”

“She isn’t,” Shiro agrees. “But there are other ways to trick a computer that have nothing to do with hacking. Everyone, be  _ careful.  _ There are still people out this late at night, but by now it’s dark enough that Sanda can definitely make a kill without drawing attention. We get to the intersection as fast as possible and get started.” 

Everyone nods. They pile out of the car, barely giving time for Shiro to lock it before they take off. He goes with them at a fast walk—not enough to draw attention, but fast enough to shave precious seconds off the ticking clock.

The intersection is just like it was yesterday, and even at nearly midnight cars still whip past at absurd speeds, racing the headlights and roaring their engines. At this hour, most of the surrounding buildings are dark, with only the street lights and occasional emergency light in the closed shops or office buildings adding any illumination to the area. 

And in the near darkness, even with the movement of the living around them, the place feels much more oppressive. There’s a pressure in the air that Shiro had only noticed faintly, when he’d been here last, but which presses down hard on his body and mind now. 

This place is  _ powerful.  _ At this hour, with death consecrating the pavement and abject  _ potential  _ in the air, this place is the most powerful it can ever be in a given day. It makes the hairs on the back of Shiro’s neck stand up, because while Acxa can use that power for them, the  _ others  _ will have access to it too, and he’s afraid to have it directed at him.

But there’s no turning back now. 

“Ready to go, Pidge?” Shiro asks, as he pulls Acxa’s spirit-jar from the safety of his pouch. 

She nods grimly, narrowing her eyes in fierce determination. “Ready.”

“Good.” He reaches for the lid of the jar to twist it open—

—and drops it unexpectedly, hastily snapping his consecrated knife into his hand and whipping it up in a frantic guard. A sharp pressure resonates down his fingers as he nearly loses his grip on the weapon, and something metallic  _ pings  _ off the blade and clatters to the pavement at his feet. Pidge yelps in surprise, makes a grab for the spirit-jar, misses, and yelps again as it shatters on the ground with a crash, spewing glittering mist everywhere.

“I should not have expected otherwise,” Sanda says, blunt and to the point, as she slides out of the shadows of the nearest alley and stalks towards them, sword in hand. 

She’s no longer bothering with the tourist guise of the daytime. Now, under the cover of darkness, Sanda is outfitted in full Covenant battle array: a military longcoat stamped with the crest of St. George, dark fatigues padded with kevlar, and sturdy boots. Everything is designed for as much efficiency as possible, while also being capable of containing dozens of weapons in a varied arsenal. 

It’s a hunting outfit, and she’s already found her prey.

Hunk makes a soft whining noise of fear behind Shiro, echoed by Lance, and Pidge whispers, “Oh,  _ no. _ ” Keith edges forward with a low snarl, not even bothering to try and hide his fangs, but Shiro throws out his hand to one side, ordering him back. Keith withdraws, but with obvious reluctance.

“Sanda,” Shiro says, with a curt nod.

“Takashi,” she answers, returning the nod. “You didn’t call, and after I extended you such leniency. I can only assume your silence—and the company you apparently keep—mean you have refused my offer.” 

She glances over the team behind him disdainfully. “A vampire whelp. A gorgon, to judge by the hissing. The bogeyman spy I’ve been chasing...I am hardly surprised to see you’ve met. A ghost you’ve foolishly let escape from a spirit jar. And I don’t know what  _ you  _ are,” she finishes, gaze settling on Lance, “but I am certain you aren’t human, to judge from the rest of you.”

“Why don’t you come over here and find out just what I am?” Lance snaps. The words are a threat, but his voice wavers. Shiro knows the false bravado for what it is. Sanda won’t need to know him at all to hear the fear, either. 

“Enough,” Shiro says quietly to Lance, although he never takes his gaze from Sanda once. To his former coworker, he adds, “What did you do with the phone?”

“I paid one of the maids at the first hotel I stayed in to turn it on once an hour,” Sanda says. “Once your twenty-four hours had passed, I had a feeling you might try to track me with it.”

Pidge curses under her breath. 

“I’m disappointed, Takashi,” Sanda says. “I had hoped you would see the light. I thought there might still be opportunities for you, and for your parents. I really did want to give you a second chance.” Her eyes narrow. “But I won’t let your family suffer needlessly over your actions, either. I will kill you myself, and bury your treason with you, rather than ever let your esteemed family know how you betrayed humanity.”

“Just go ahead and try it!” Keith snarls warningly, teeth bared. He edges up next to Shiro on his right, and this time ignores when Shiro tries to wave him back. “If you try to kill him, we’ll kill you first.”

“Yeah,” Lance adds. To Shiro’s surprise, Lance edges up next to Keith, eyes narrowed, while Pidge and Hunk take their places to Shiro’s left. They bracket him like an honor guard, and all of them bristle with barely contained fury. “You can’t take on  _ all  _ of us. Just try it.”

“Killing me here will only bring more of my order to wipe out you monsters,” Sanda snaps. She crouches defensively, sword in one hand, and with a quick flourish she retrieves a handgun from the depths of her coat with the other. Even with all of them against her, she’ll almost certainly take down one or two of them before she dies. 

“Shiro!” Acxa hisses. She touches his shoulder from behind, and he nearly whirls to put the consecrated blade through her on pure adrenaline-fueled reaction, stopping himself just in time. “We don’t have time for this confrontation. Already my master stirs. There’s too much activity in this place of power. He’ll  _ know. _ ”

Damn it. Damn it! The crossroads are already enough of a threat as it is. They barely have the force needed to take on Lotor and three crossroads ghosts as it is, and all of them need  _ all  _ of their strength if they’re going to survive this at all. They  _ can’t  _ lose even one of their number to Sanda, not now. 

“I can take us if the words are spoken—” Acxa begins.

“No. Even if we pull it off, she’ll be waiting here for us,” Shiro says under his breath. “We’ll be weak. We’ll die.”

“You’ll die if you stay,” Acxa snaps. “And my master will remain corrupted. I can’t allow that.”

Sanda begins to stalk forward. Beside him, his friends bristle, baring teeth, spines, and snakes in a vicious and deadly display. Acxa’s grip on his shoulder tightens. The pressure of  _ power  _ and  _ potential  _ in the air grows heavier, thicker, until it’s hard to breathe. 

Too much. Too fast. There’s too many things that can go  _ wrong  _ and too many things to try and keep track of and too many threats and there’s no way he can get everyone out of this and there’s no way to  _ win,  _ none of the pieces line up—

—and then, suddenly, they do, and with a sudden burst of understanding Shiro leaps forward, striking out with the consecrated blade in his hand. 

Sanda meets it with practiced ease, sword clashing against knife in a perfect block. Shiro doesn’t press the attack, only keeps the blades locked and useless as he glares over them into her eyes and snaps, “Me, or the crossroads. Take your pick.”

Ellen Sanda is not given to surprise, and never has been. But even she stares at him for a long, confused moment, before saying, “What?”

“My friends and I are here tonight, right now, to stop the crossroads,” Shiro says. “Whatever your misgivings with me or the cryptid community are, I think we can agree on both sides that the way they take advantage of people is wrong. I know it’s been a target of the Covenant for hundreds of years, but you never had a way to hurt it. Well, we do. So you can kill us here and fulfill your personal duty—or you can set aside your differences and help us, and take down one of the biggest targets the Covenant has ever had.”

There’s a strangled noise from behind him. Shiro doesn’t know who it comes from, and he doesn’t care. Right now, all of his energy is focused on Sanda, and keeping that sword locked while he battles with words instead of actions.

“You’re lying,” Sanda says, after a long moment. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” Shiro says. “I don’t have time to explain how, but I guarantee you, we  _ will  _ end the crossroad’s corruption.” His eyes narrow. “Think about it, Sanda. The agent responsible for striking a blow against the  _ crossroads  _ will go down in Covenant history. I have no intention of going back—that glory is all yours.  _ If  _ you help us.”

“You’re  _ recruiting  _ her?” Lance sputters from behind him.

“It’s like you said,” Shiro points out, careful not to use Lance’s name. “We could use more recruits. And I can tell you from experience, Sanda is one of the best at fighting things that aren’t human.” 

Sanda actually snorts at that. “It is something of a skill of mine,” she agrees, with a touch of the dry humor she was known for around the Covenant base. For a moment, Shiro can remember the old days, learning advanced blade and firearm techniques under her tutelage at Penton Hall. She had always been a stern teacher, but fair. Earning her approval, or her rare moments of amusement, had felt like one of the greatest victories of all.

Once.

_ You can’t straddle the line forever, Shiro,  _ he warns himself. He wonders if this is some foolish attempt on his part to reconcile his past with his present. The past two days have been an exhausting onslaught of old memories and new terrors. He doesn’t know how much longer he can try to balance it. 

The pressure against his knife lessens, and Sanda pulls back her sword cautiously. “The crossroads is a much greater enemy than a few stray monsters and a wayward traitor,” she concedes. “I would be honor-bound to remove it as a threat if at all possible. But what guarantee do I have that you or your... _ friends... _ won’t turn on me the moment it’s convenient?”

Keith snarls behind him, and Lance yells indignantly, “We’re not  _ murderers  _ like the Covenant are!”

“That isn’t how I’ve seen it, in my experience,” Sanda snaps back.

“Enough!” Shiro barks, and to his very great surprise,  _ everyone  _ falls silent. 

“Killing you doesn’t help us in any way,” he says to Sanda. “As long as you help us, we won’t attack you. But I will have your word that you don’t come after me or my friends either, during or after.  _ Everyone  _ will be needed for this to work. If you kill one of my friends while we fight the crossroads, or take advantage of anyone’s state afterwards, there is no place on Earth you can go that I won’t find you. And when I find you, I will kill you, no matter the consequences.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Are we clear?”

She stares back at him cooly. “Do your friends also agree to these terms?”

“Guys?” Shiro asks. He never takes his eyes from Sanda, but he does cock his head slightly, addressing the question back to the others behind him. “Do you agree?”

“She chased me across half the  _ world,”  _ Pidge says indignantly. “I can’t trust her!” The others voice their agreement.

“I’m not asking you to trust her,” Shiro says. “I’m asking you to trust  _ me.  _ We are out of time, and this is the only way I see this working. I will not let anyone get hurt here. I promise.”

They grumble, for a moment, but then Keith speaks up. “I trust you, Takashi. I agree.” His voice grows colder. “But your threat also goes for me. If she kills  _ you,  _ I’ll hunt her down myself.”

Sanda snorts at that, but wisely says nothing.

“Fine,” Pidge grouses after a moment. “I trust you too, Shiro. I’ll do it.”

“Same,” Hunk says. “We don’t have time to argue anyway.”

Lance huffs in frustration. Of all of them, he’s lost the most to the Covenant, and trusting a true agent obviously galls him. But after a moment, he snaps, “Fine. She doesn’t hurt us, I don’t hurt her.”

“I will do what I must to save my master,” Acxa says. “But I am warning you, Shirogane...if you do not uphold the terms  _ we  _ set earlier, I will turn on you myself.” 

“There,” Shiro says, ignoring the threat. “They agreed. Well?”

Sanda regards him cooly for a moment. Then she says, “Fine. I swear on the soul of St. George himself, and by the honor of the Order of the Covenant of St. George, I will not attack your companions for the duration of the mission. Additionally, I will grant...twenty-four hours after its completion, before I begin to hunt those present once more. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes,” Shiro agrees. In all honesty, he’s a little floored by Sanda’s oath. To swear on St. George himself isn’t something the Covenant takes lightly. It’s a serious pledge, and to break anything sworn on name and order incurs a lifelong shame. Sanda must want to take the crossroads down, and desperately, to prioritize it so above all else. 

But it does bode well for them. The Covenant might be an order dedicated to wiping out anything non-human, but it is a  _ paladin  _ order, and honor and duty comes before all else. Sanda won’t break this promise. 

And if she does, he meant what he said. He’ll kill her. Consequences be damned.

“What are we fighting?” Sanda asks immediately, reholstering her gun and sheathing the sword inside of her longcoat. She steps close enough to join them, but still maintains enough distance to not be within striking range. Oaths or not, the alliance is fragile, and the only person anybody here trusts is him. 

“Ghosts,” Shiro answers curtly. “Keep attackers off of the three of us with the others.” He gestures to himself, Pidge, and Acxa. “All we need is time to handle our part. Acxa—let’s go.”

“Good,” Acxa says coldly. “We’ve wasted enough time. My master is already stirring. Speak the declaration.”

Pidge nods, and takes a deep breath. “My bargain with the crossroads was not honored,” she intones, exactly as Acxa had taught her. “I was not given the information I asked for in good faith, and was led to believe otherwise through trickery. I demand recompense!” 

Acxa’s thousand-mile eyes flare golden, and her skin begins to glow. Her arms fling wide, and that  _ pressure  _ of sheer potential flows towards her, past the rest of them,  _ through  _ the rest of them. Everyone looks unsettled, even Sanda, as they set their backs to each other defensively in a circle. 

“The bargain of Katie Holt is challenged,” Acxa intones. “I did not arbitrate the bargain, but I am here now, and I have been asked to speak in her defense. Let the appeal commence.” And with a note of finality, she claps her hands.

“Wait,” Lance says. “Who’s Katie? I thought you said your name was Pidge—”

The force of power, heavy all around them, stirs. The whole world flashes, brilliant gold against the black of midnight, and suddenly just like before, Shiro isn’t in Garrison anymore. Once again, he stands on hard-packed dirt, on a rough path in the middle of endless fields of golden corn. The rustic sun hangs above them, regardless of the hour in the real world, and everywhere around them is that malevolent, hungering  _ presence.  _

But this time, two things are different. This time, the world around them feels completely solid, absolutely  _ real.  _ Before, Shiro had been able to see through the overlay of corn and rustic sunlight back into Garrison, but now it’s as if the city doesn’t exist, or as if  _ he  _ exists in another plane entirely. And this time, he isn’t alone, but instead back to back with four friends, an allied crossroads ghost, and a grudgingly helpful enemy. 

A long, stunned moment of silence passes. Then Lance says meekly, “Guys? I see how the corn is scary now, and I really don’t like it.”

“Agreed,” Hunk squeaks. “Evil vegetables are  _ evil.  _ Food shouldn’t be evil.”

“For once,” Sanda hisses shortly, “I think I am in agreement with your companions, Takashi.” Her words are composed, but Shiro swears he actually hears a faint trace of fear in her voice, and that almost scares him more than anything else.

“Oh, crap. If the Covenant lady agrees with us, we’re in trouble, aren’t we?” Hunk whispers.

“Shut  _ up,”  _ Keith snaps. “Stop freaking out in front of her.”

“Hush,” Shiro orders. “Pay attention. And whatever you do,  _ do not  _ go into the fields.” 

_ “By all means, do,”  _ a voice says, from everywhere and nowhere at once.  _ “I detest intruders and thieves, and I am  _ very  _ hungry. Please, make my day a little easier.”  _

Even expecting the voice, even having experienced it the first time, Shiro’s heart still hammers at the sheer  _ force  _ in it. For all they’ve referred to their enemy as Lotor, the fact is that ‘Lotor’ is only a persona.  _ This  _ is what they are truly here to fight, and the crossroads exists  _ everywhere  _ around them. In the corn and in the spaces between it, in the hard packed dirt beneath their feet and in the rustic sun, and most of all in that dark, heavy aura that shrouds this whole place. 

Shiro is ready for it, and he still quails a little. The others besides Pidge have  _ never  _ encountered this, and only have Shiro’s warning to go off of, and Sanda not even that. Lance cowers with a soft, animalistic whine that might as well have come from his alternate form. Several of Hunk’s snakes break through their illusory barrier and snap defensively at the air as he looks around in a panic. Keith, normally so prone to attack and ask questions later, actually  _ wilts  _ at the noise, fingers trembling on the hilt of his knife. Even Sanda, with over thirty years of training against supernatural entities, reflexively reaches for a weapon as she whispers, “My God. What have we done?”

_ “What indeed,”  _ the voice of the crossroads says. 

Down the hard-packed dirt road, the air ripples, and the crossroad’s chosen form of Lotor steps out of thin air and stalks towards them. Narti, Ezor and Zethrid, his three remaining crossroads ghosts, appear out of the fields of corn and follow respectfully after. Lotor’s expression is mildly irritated at best, and Narti’s face is expressionless, but Ezor and Zethrid both look ready for a bloodbath. 

“What  _ is  _ the meaning of this, Acxa?” Lotor drawls, in the same cultured, accented voice he’d used on Shiro’s last visit. “I don’t remember agreeing to allow guests into my home.”

Acxa steps forward. Of everyone on Shiro’s team, she’s the only one who remains fully composed in the face of such power...but then, that makes sense. “A deal has been challenged, and an appeal made,” she intones formally. “The right of access to Oriande is thus granted by the old laws.”

Lotor’s eyes narrow, and he sweeps his gaze over the team arrayed before him on the dirt path.  _ “You,”  _ he snarls, as thousands of miles of eternal night land on Pidge. His elegant decorum  _ flickers,  _ for just a moment, shadowed by something harsh and cruel. 

Pidge shivers under the power in his stare, shrinking into Shiro’s side automatically. He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes reassuringly, before giving her a supportive push forward. He can feel her shuddering breath under his hand, but then she straightens confidently, and stares that thousand-mile gaze down. 

“You didn’t give me what I asked for,” Pidge says. There’s only the tiniest of wavers in her voice, barely noticeable unless you were truly looking. Shiro has faced down that gaze himself, and although he’s never doubted for a second she can do this, he knows how strong Pidge is in that exact moment. 

“Is that so?” Lotor says. His voice is icy cold. As he steps forward, he seems to grow an additional few inches in height, and his features grow sharper and more angular. “And who are you, to make demands of  _ me?  _ You haven’t even  _ made  _ your payment yet, to demand recompense.”

“That’s not true!” Pidge snaps back. “I’ve been doing exactly what you told me to, but you cheated, so it’s not fair!”

“You didn’t bring Shirogane here to deal,” Lotor snarls. “You brought him here to kill me!” His gaze snaps to Shiro, and for a moment Shiro is overwhelmed by thousands of miles of endless, inescapable midnight roads, and he freezes. 

“I will be generous,” Lotor says, and his voice shifts all of a sudden, from angry and violent to elegant and polite. “I will overlook this obvious slight and these childish tactics, as long as you follow through with the favor you owe me. Which I am changing now, as is my right. Kill Shirogane.”

Strangled noises of protest erupt from the rest of the team; even Sanda scowls at that. Pidge’s objection is by far the loudest, though. “What? No!”

“The terms of your deal have been made clear, Katie Holt,” Lotor says, his voice icy cold once more. “Kill Shirogane, and your payment and your deal are concluded.”

“I won’t!”

Lotor’s eyes narrow, and his whole visage _flickers_ again. The dark miasma shrouding the entirety of Oriande stirs, and the cornfields rustle faintly in a wind that doesn’t actually exist.

“You do not  _ refuse  _ me,” Lotor snaps. “Not when I  _ own  _ you by your own agreement! Kill him,  _ now!”  _ And he reaches out, clenching one of his fists in Pidge’s direction.

Pidge  _ screams.  _

A scream from a bogeyman is an awful, unearthly thing, a terrifying  _ shriek _ that digs down to the most primal parts of the human brain in seconds. Even trained for it, Shiro can’t help but jerk in an aborted attempt to run, and it takes him precious seconds to regain his wits. Keith and Lance both have their hands clamped over their much more sensitive ears, grimacing in obvious pain, and Hunk’s snakes slither and snap in a frenzy so strong it dislodges his headband down around his neck. Even Sanda looks distinctly uncomfortable at the noise, although she remains rooted in place.

And  _ still  _ Pidge screams. Her back arches so unnaturally Shiro is afraid it will break, and her many-jointed hands twitch like dying spiders. Nothing touches her, and yet Lotor’s will alone is enough to cause sheer agony. 

Shiro had been warned that the crossroads could enforce deals. He hadn’t known how, exactly, but he’s beginning to understand the steep penalty for reneging on a deal with a force of nature.

He knows there’s nothing he can do. Pidge’s deal is the only way to fight back against Lotor at all; his exorcism will fail miserably against all of that might if he tries now. He’s helpless, and yet he desperately searches for  _ something  _ he can do anyway. Some weapon in his arsenal might distract Lotor. Something he could say might steal his attention for a moment. Something, anything—

But Acxa takes the decision from his hands. She steps forward, still glowing the same rustic gold of the crossroads power, and neatly slices her hand out in a sharp motion. Ezor and Zethrid make startled, angry noises as Lotor’s fist snaps open. Pidge, with a gasp, collapses to her knees on the hard-packed dirt. Shiro immediately drops to one knee beside her defensively, a hand on her back.

“Pidge?” he asks. “You okay?”

Pidge gasps, a harsh, choked sound, and her many-jointed fingers dig into the dirt beneath her. But after a moment, she lifts her head to look at Lotor, and even with a trembling voice, says, “Answer’s...still... _ no.”  _

Lotor’s expression is livid. The withering look he gives Pidge promises more absolute pain, before his harsh glare turns on Acxa. “What is the meaning of this treachery?”

“No treachery,” Acxa returns curtly. “The terms of Katie Holt’s deal are in question and have been challenged. Until the bargain has been examined and all agreements made on both sides are verified, you are not permitted to enforce action on that deal. That is the law, and the reason I am permitted to intercede against my master.”

The elegant visage of Lotor shifts again, and something dark and cruel passes across his face. The rustic crossroads sun above had never been pleasant, but it feels colder, now, and the world around them grows just a little bit darker. 

“You,” Lotor says slowly, glaring at Acxa—and Shiro’s not imagining it, he is  _ definitely  _ taller now, fingers longer and sharper and more spindly, fangs more prominent, voice harsher—“Do  _ not  _ want to cross me.”

“I am not crossing you,” Acxa says. “This is the law set down for the balance of the world. The bargain has been challenged; it must be reviewed fairly, under the eyes of the law. You do want to follow the rules, don’t you?  _ Master?”  _ The last word is said almost challengingly, as she stares back at Lotor with cool professionalism. 

Lotor regards her with cold fury. The corn undulates, as if waving in a coming storm, but there’s no wind to speak of. It is  _ definitely  _ getting darker now, and colder, and the awful aura of cruel power squirms and shifts about them violently. It coalesces around Lotor, and Shiro realizes with a start that his skin is  _ moving,  _ and that shadows slither over his form and make him something harsher,  _ crueler.  _

“Kill them,” Lotor orders, and his voice is crueler too, cultured elegance replaced by a rasping edge that bites like a rusty blade. “End the appeal.”

The three remaining crossroads ghosts behind him look genuinely startled at the order. Ezor and Zethrid exchange confused glances, and Narti’s staring gaze forms a deep frown.

“Now!” Lotor barks. “Or you will join your  _ coworker  _ in her punishment for treason.”

That does it. Ezor leaps forward immediately, nimble and quick, with Zethrid just behind her. Narti takes a few steps forward, to put herself defensively between Lotor and the challenges, and raises her hands silently to begin what is no doubt a fearsome spell.

“I thought they weren’t supposed to attack until after!” Hunk yelps. “For the next part!”

“Seems like Lotor’s breaking the rules,” Shiro yells back. 

Which had  _ big  _ implications. Bigger than Shiro can even dig into right now. Cosmic forces like the crossroads operated under their own set of laws, which were ironclad and unbreakable. They had a great deal of power, but it came within equally great boundaries. 

Acxa had warned him that her actions were inside the law. An appeal was  _ mandated  _ by that law. Lotor  _ shouldn’t  _ be able to break it. He shouldn’t even be able to  _ try.  _

But he was. Or perhaps more specifically, whatever force that had  _ changed  _ the crossroads was. 

“Breaking the law of the crossroads he is bound to will cost him, no matter what happens next,” Acxa warns. “If we complete the appeal, it will weaken him even further, and leave him exposed. This is a dangerous gamble he’s taking.”

No wonder the other crossroads ghosts had been so surprised. Lotor was risking  _ everything.  _ Even now, Oriande grows darker still, and the whole world crackles with raw energy, setting the hair on the back of Shiro’s neck on end. Shadows coat Lotor like a second skin, and his thousand-mile eyes gleam with malevolence. Even a fraction of the power they are facing down is unfathomable to mortal minds. 

It’s a terrifying display. But as Acxa said, it’s also a gamble, stripping away the veneer of the crossroads. And Lotor is showing his hand. 

“Then let’s make sure he loses,” Shiro says. “Acxa...do what you need to do. Pidge and I will support you. Everyone else...keep them off us.”

Keith is the first one to answer Shiro’s order, lunging forward to meet Ezor as the nimble crossroads ghost swings out with a wide roundhouse kick. He blocks the strike and uses his superior vampiric strength to shove her off balance, lashing out with his knife as he does. Shiro had doused the blade liberally in purified salts earlier, and it actually manages to nick the ghost as she turns her stumble into an artful recovery and backflip worthy of the Olympics. 

She presses her hand to the gash, which oozes glittering smoke, and glares at him. Keith presses the attack, relentless. He doesn’t have the gear to beat Ezor, or exorcize her, but he doesn’t have to. He just needs to keep her occupied long enough. 

In the distraction, Lance barrels past in his chupacabra form, claws digging into the hard-packed dirt to propel himself to even greater speeds. He makes a beeline for Narti, and with an unearthly howl, snaps his toothy jaw at one of her outstretched casting hands. 

Blind or no, the crossroads ghost is clearly aware of exactly where he is and pulls her hands back to safety, already focusing her attention on him for a destructive spell. But Lance is equal to that, and ducks, weaves, and dives with his superior agility, darting close enough to make threatening snaps and slices with his teeth and claws. Without prepared weaponry there’s nothing he can do to damage a crossroads ghost at all, but if he can break the witch’s concentration long enough to keep her from laying down compulsion spells or harming anyone with destructive casting, it will be enough.

That leaves Zethrid, who barrels close with a yell, aiming for Pidge. Shiro slides in front of the bogeyman immediately, consecrated knife at the ready, but it’s Hunk who actually leaps forward to meet the challenge. Their hands meet in a crushing grapple, and with a roar Hunk shoves backwards against her, putting so much of his raw determination into the counter that his rarely-seen hinged gorgon fangs drop into view. 

But although Hunk is strong, even for a gorgon, he’s outmatched. Even dead, Zethrid’s half-sasquatch blood is telling, and her strength is clearly superior. She shoves Hunk back, grinning with feral delight. “Not  _ all  _ of you are so tough, huh?”

Hunk’s head bows under the force of the attack. It puts his hair in perfect alignment with his opponent, and with a lightning-quick succession of yellow and black flashes,  _ strikestrikestrikestrikestrike, _ his snakes sink their fangs into Zethrid’s arms and pump their deadly venom. 

But Zethrid is already dead, and the venom means nothing to her now. The pinprick punctures in her arms don’t even smoke with ghostly residue. She sneers, and shoves Hunk away, saying, “That’s it? Path—”

Three successive shots fire at close range, one after another, and a triangle of closely clustered holes appear on Zethrid’s chest. They pour glittering gray mist, and she shrieks, pressing a hand to the wounds. “That  _ hurts!  _ What the hell is that?”

“Consecrated rounds,” Sanda answers sharply, firearm raised as she sidesteps neatly around to the side for a better angle. “Get to work, Takashi. I only have so many bullets.”

As much as he hates to take orders from her, he takes Sanda’s point. His friends have the ghosts neutralized, but that won’t last forever. 

“Hunk, come back here for a last line of defense,” he orders. Neither Hunk’s gaze nor his venom would have any effect on Lotor’s followers, and loathe as he is to admit it, Sanda is a better option for keeping Zethrid at bay. “Give us warning if they close in. Acxa, Pidge, get to work.”

Acxa nods. As if a battle isn’t raging all around her, fellow coworkers against unlikely allies, she steps up next to Pidge and looks Lotor in the eye. “The bargain of Katie Holt has been challenged. The deal of information—the confirmation or denial of the survival of Samuel and Matthew Holt, and knowledge of where to locate them—was set at the price of one task, to be performed at a later date, at the discretion of the crossroads.”

“Which it was not,” Lotor responds sharply. “The debtor refused to pay the price, as witnessed here in Oriande itself.” 

His voice still carries that harsh, razor’s edge, and he sounds livid at being forced to continue the charade of the appeal. The dark presence of the crossroads writhes and squirms over and around him, overbearing and heavy, and the corn sways and rustles as though something lurks within and stirs. The appearance he takes is still Lotor, but there’s an undeniable  _ wrongness  _ to it now, like something violent and cruel wears the form he had created and made it sharper, angular, malevolent. 

“The requested gifts were not received,” Acxa counters. “A bargain was made in good faith, but under the terms of the deal, the crossroads have not delivered. All services rendered of the crossroads are to be granted at the time of the deal.”

“Did I not grant the truth of the debtor’s family?” Lotor sneers. “I gave her the information they were alive.”

“Only  _ one  _ service was met.”

“One service of two means I am owed  _ half  _ of my payment,” Lotor argues. His eyes slide to Pidge, and there’s open contempt in his expression. “The girl has no right to argue, and she owes me a dead Covenant agent.” His gaze flicks to Shiro. Shiro does his best to not let thousands of midnight miles overwhelm him completely.

“Payment was  _ not  _ required at the time of the bargain,” Acxa says. “I witnessed the deal myself. Per the original terms, the price was one task, to be determined at a later date.”

“Which has since been determined, and has not been met!” Lotor snarls. The shadows coating him like a second skin writhe and twitch spasmodically, slithering through his long white hair and over his strange armor, an unsettling and unnatural sight. 

“ _ Both  _ services were to be rendered at the time of the deal,” Acxa says. Her eyes, still glowing gold with the power of the crossroads, watch the writhing shadows warily. But for all her caution, her tone and her words are still unerringly professional. “Information regarding the whereabouts of Samuel and Matthew Holt has not been provided.” 

“She was given information at the time of the bargain,” Lotor says, waving the issue aside indifferently with a shadow-coated hand. 

“Yeah—you told me about  _ Shiro,”  _ Pidge cuts in angrily. “Not my dad or brother. You sold me a lie!”

The world of Oriande, already crackling with power, rumbles alarmingly. Shiro staggers a step as the earth trembles beneath his feet, and all around him the combatants stumble and lose their footing. Sanda curses as one of her shots is thrown off at the movement, and Ezor yelps as the shaking grants Keith an unexpectedly deep cut with his consecrated knife.

But of all of them, Lotor looks the most shaken. He staggers as though struck by a jab to the shoulder, bracing his legs just in time to remain upright. He recovers a moment later, returning to the same neat, military posture as before. But  _ something  _ had cost him, and he glares at Pidge with cold malevolence. 

“Have a care,” he says, softly and yet oh so dangerously, “who you accuse of lying here, little girl.”

“Do you deny providing false information?” Acxa asks.

“The information I provided  _ was  _ true,” Lotor answers sharply. “And wasn’t it valid? Takashi Shirogane is the last known non-hostile you could approach who has encountered your family, and the only one capable of providing you with sightings of them. You wanted to find your family—Shirogane has the potential to find his way to them. He has  _ already  _ given you information about them. Without me, you would not have even that.” 

The argument is cleverly weaved, and elegantly stated. Even without the use of Narti’s compulsion spells, Lotor has a way of speaking that makes one  _ want _ to believe him, even knowing his honeyed words for the poison they are. It’s hardly a surprise Pidge fell for the ruse last time. 

It might have even been believable this time, in better circumstances. Except that his cultured, rich voice still has that harsh, raspy edge it’s taken on since he first ordered the appeal ended, and there’s a malicious intent in his words he can’t hide anymore. Although as a force of nature Lotor has no need for air, his current avatar’s breathing grows heavier regardless, panting softly. The darkness slithering over his form begins to dribble off of his arms and fingers, from his hair and his strange clothes, like blood running from a wound. Each drop of shadow that hits the hard packed earth beneath his feet causes another tiny tremor beneath them, and the pressure of the malicious presence and raw energy of the crossroads is so heavy it almost hurts.

This isn’t a force of infinite possibilities. This is a wounded animal being backed into a corner. A very deadly, very  _ powerful  _ wounded animal.

Acxa must see it too, because she closes in. “The terms of the original bargain require guaranteed, quantifiable information regarding the whereabouts of Samuel and Matthew Holt,” she states firmly. “I will ask just once: do you own this information, and can you grant it under the terms?”

The expression on Lotor’s face is positively hateful, raw, and ugly. “The  _ potentials  _ on the information granted are—” 

Oriande rumbles again. Shadows coalesce overhead like angry storm clouds, and for the first time the energy growing heavy around them  _ literally  _ crackles, in the form of a violet bolt of lightning. Lotor staggers as the bolt narrowly misses him, rippling past him over the dirt into the corn.

Undeterred, Lotor straightens and tries again. “Shirogane is the last—”

Again, Oriande shudders beneath them, sending everyone but Acxa staggering sideways. Shiro reaches out to grasp Pidge’s arm, helping her remain upright. Beneath their feet, small cracks begin to grow in the hard-packed dirt path, which grows drier and dustier by the second. 

In front of them, Lotor gasps in what is undoubtedly  _ pain,  _ clutching at his chest as he drops to one knee. Another violet bolt of energy snaps past him, whipping his white hair into disarray. His panting grows harsher, and the rivulettes of dripping shadows run off of his body faster, staining the dry dirt a toxic black. 

This time, it’s with obvious difficulty that Lotor forces himself back to his feet, where he sways unsteadily, no longer able to keep his sharp military posture. His hair hangs messily over one shoulder, strands obscuring his face, and he keeps his hand pressed over his heart as though shielding it. 

But his eyes are as intense as ever, thousands of miles of endless midnight roads disorienting and overwhelming as he glares at them. His face is twisted into something hideous, as his formerly elegant features are abandoned in favor of sharp lines and violent angles. “Perhaps a different target—” he tries again, each word forced and harsh, grating and vile, as he struggles against the truth he’s been challenged to give.

Oriande thunders around them, raw energy made manifest in the form of half a dozen violet lightning strikes that just barely miss everyone present. Shiro feels the heat of one pass by him, too much power in a stringle strike for one mere mortal to comprehend. Pidge staggers against him, and he instinctively drags her close and crouches over her, shielding her with his body against the worst of the strikes and the cast-off debris from the path. Everyone else, crossroads ghost and visiting mortal alike, loses their own footing, collapsing with gasps and yelps to the dry packed dirt. Even Acxa staggers, despite the support of the golden crossroads energy that is the old law made manifest. 

But of all of them, Lotor suffers the brunt of the world’s blow. He shrieks in pain, but it cuts off mid-cry as he gags violently, crashing to both knees. His second skin of writhing shadows sloughs off of him in oily, dribbling patches, creating a disturbing illusion of the flesh melting off of his bones. The creature beneath the dripping darkness isn’t the composed, elegant avatar the crossroads had chosen to present; he’s a wasted, sickly looking shadow of himself, withered and trembling. 

His whole body lurches as though he’s about to vomit, and he chokes violently, clamping one hand against his mouth. His too-long nails dig into the skin of his too-thin face, underneath the melting visage, gouging the now dulled lines under his eyes. The blood he draws isn’t blood at all, but more of the same coalescing darkness that sloughs off of him, dripping to the hard packed dirt beneath him.

“God,” Pidge whispers, eyes wide. “I didn’t think…”

Shiro swallows, pulling Pidge to her feet again and putting a supportive hand on her shoulder. He  _ gets  _ it. Lotor’s tormented her and relentlessly threatened him, and yet even so this is awful to watch.

Acxa doesn’t look happy either, to judge by her deep frown. She takes a sharp, steadying breath for just a moment, even though she hasn’t needed to breathe for a thousand years. But when she speaks, her voice is professional and firm. “Do you know the location of Samuel and Matthew Holt, or not?”

Lotor shudders hard, dragging in harsh, panting gasps through the hand still clamped over his mouth and nose. He lurches again like he’s trying to vomit, gasping the aborted beginnings of words, and the violet lightning crackles harsher and louder all around them. With a shock, Shiro realizes that Lotor is trying  _ desperately  _ to lie, to answer  _ yes,  _ and that he very literally  _ can’t,  _ and that every attempt is becoming more and more painful for him.

“No!” he finally half gags, half shrieks. “No! I don’t know. I don’t know!”

Oriande rumbles again, but softer, this time. Not enough to throw most of them to their feet. Just enough to force Lotor to throw out his hand for balance, still on his knees in the dirt. The shadows drip off of him faster still, melting away to the wasted thing beneath. 

But that malevolence, that violence and cruelty, doesn’t disappear. If anything that oppressive aura grows thicker, and the world around them grows colder. And for just a moment, in the crackling flash of violet energy, Shiro swears he sees something glinting, like a spider’s thread, dripping with darkened dew drops and weaving a web around the avatar of the crossroads. 

But it’s gone as fast as it comes, and then Acxa steps closer, glowing brighter still as she holds out her hands, power coalescing within them. “You have made a bargain based on a potential reality, and sold information that was not finite, and that you did not have,” she intones. “The old laws are broken on two counts. Through the power of the laws of the crossroads, in my duty as guide and arbitrator, I absolve the bargain of Katie Holt. All terms are made void. The requested services cannot be granted, and payments are no longer owed.” 

Golden light flashes, and Lotor shrieks in rage and agony, a scream that comes from  _ everywhere  _ around them—the avatar, the corn, the air, the spaces between things. Shiro shields his eyes for a moment against the blinding light, and around him friend and foe alike yell in surprise. There’s a sharp  _ crack,  _ like shattering glass, that reverberates all around him. 

When he’s able to finally blink his eyes open, it’s just in time to see a golden thread leading from Lotor to Pidge dissolve into thin air, and the bogeyman slumps to her knees.

“Pidge!” Shiro kneels beside her, once more placing a hand on her back. “Are you okay?”

She shivers for a moment, but when she turns to look at him, it’s with wide-eyed wonder. “I’m  _ free,”  _ she whispers, and then gasps in delight. “I’m  _ free!  _ I can feel it! The weight of the deal, it’s just...it’s  _ gone!”  _

Shiro breathes a sigh of relief. At least  _ one  _ thing had gone right.

And then he notices the world around them, and begins to re-evaluate the definition of ‘something going right.’

The rustic sun and the stormy country skies are gone. The dirt road through the fields remains the same, and the corn looms over them as tall and as malevolent is ever, but it’s like the sky has simply vanished. An open white void exists overhead as far as the eye can see, starless, cloudless, terrifyingly empty of  _ anything  _ that has meaning. The air looks  _ broken,  _ cracked and reflective, like a mirror shattered into a billion shards, with awful gaps into the endless white void where pieces are simply missing.

Around them, Lotor’s remaining crossroads ghosts are frozen in mid-battle, staring between the void sky and their fallen master in confusion and shock. Likewise, his friends take advantage of the desperately needed lull in the battle. Lance and Keith withdraw, panting, bruised and battered, also trying to divide their attention between the strange sky and their opponents. Sanda, well trained by the Covenant and not given to panic in unexpected situations, takes advantage of the spare seconds to swap an empty clip for a fresh one in her firearm. Hunk, not immediately occupied with an enemy, rambles frantically, “Oh Athena, we broke Oriande, oh no, oh no, oh  _ no…” _

In front of them, Lotor is still on hands and knees, gasping in pain, dripping shadows. Slav’s assessment was correct—he was  _ definitely  _ weaker. But even as his arms and legs tremble with exertion and he pants for breath, the power of Oriande gathers around him, crackling and violent and  _ cruel.  _ Lotor might be  _ weaker,  _ but he is by no means powerless, and the crossroads are more than just a single avatar.

And he is no longer alone. Something stands over Lotor, something that Shiro has never seen before in his life, something he has no name for. It’s covered in—or perhaps made of—the same shadows that had coated Lotor like a second skin, accented with crackling violet power and soul-fire eyes that glow a dim purple. It’s vaguely humanoid, but the proportions are all wrong: too-long arms and legs, a blade-tipped whiplike tail, jagged spikes all along its spine and limbs. It towers over them, at least twice Shiro’s size, and the sickly, cruel miasma that had coated the crossroads is at its strongest at the creature’s core.

It raises its hands, and in the crackling power of Oriande, Shiro sees the webbing tangled around the avatar of the crossroads once again. There is no mistaking the threads that lead from the webs to the jagged creature’s claws, made of the same stringy ooze that sloughs off of Lotor’s wretched form. The power of the crossroads no doubt concealed the creature...but weakened as Lotor is, there’s no hiding it now.

Acxa gasps, and so do the other crossroads ghosts. “What on Earth…”

“We are a  _ long  _ way from Earth,” Pidge hisses. “And I don’t think that thing is from there either!”

“Have you ever seen this before?” Shiro asks, staring the thing down. He’d expected corruption. He’d never expected _this._

“Never,” Acxa whispers. “I never thought—”

Whatever she plans to say, Shiro never finds out. The shade twitches its claws, and the threads dance, and Lotor jerks upright like a broken marionette. His withered face twists hideously with a manic expression as he snarls, “I’ve had enough of this idiotic farce. Every single one of you will rot in the corn.” 

His eyes blaze with frenzied malevolence, piercing through each of them and pinning them in place with sheer intensity. Shiro wonders, for one terrified moment, if it’s possible for a cosmic force to lose their sanity.

But then Keith screams, “ _ Now,  _ Takashi!” and with a sudden mental wrench Shiro is free. He does simultaneously the most reasonable and the most insane thing he can at that exact moment: he turns, and bolts for the cornfield on the side of the road.

“Kill him!” Lotor shrieks, and his voice has lost its cultured, sophisticated tone entirely, replaced by harsh madness. “Kill every last one of them!” 

Zethrid and Narti both try to attack, obvious uncertainty and fear in their expressions. But Sanda cuts the first off with a rapid shot from her firearm, and Lance leaps to intercept the second. 

Ezor, eyes wide with not a little desperation, manages a neat twisting flip over Keith’s shoulders to dodge a swipe from his knife. She ignores him entirely and charges for Shiro, obviously intending to intercept him before he makes it to the fields. 

“No!” Keith yells, whirling to chase after her. He’s too late, and Ezor lunges—

—and so does Hunk, cannoning into the crossroads ghost from the side with a roar. He tackles her away from Shiro, and his snakes snap and strike in a violent frenzy at her face and shoulders, however useless the attempts might be.

“Ew!” she shrieks angrily. “Get  _ off  _ me! Get off!”

“Go, Shiro!” Hunk yells over his shoulder. “We’ve got this, go!”

Shiro spares them one last glance over his shoulder, not slowing down for a second as he runs. Ezor fights like a wild thing in Hunk’s bear hug grapple, writhing and yelling anxiously, while Keith closes in to help. Acxa runs in to counter Zethrid, and the two circle like rival predators, blocking the other’s way. Pidge hurls herself at Narti, brandishing her taser at the witch, helping Lance distract her from casting any spells. Sanda, in perhaps the most suicidal gamble of all, turns her firearm on Lotor himself and begins unloading her entire clip in his direction. It doesn’t harm him in the least—but it does draw his attention away from Shiro for a few precious, critical seconds.

And in those critical seconds, Shiro reaches the edge of the fields, and plunges into the corn.

It’s like he enters another world entirely, separate from even Oriande itself. The sounds of battle on the roads become muted and distant, like they’re miles and miles away. The cornstalks tower over him, and while he can see bits and pieces of the blank white void above, it’s obscured by corn shucks and thick leaves. 

But the rattling and the rustling in the field itself becomes more intense, like something is following him. Realistically, something probably  _ is,  _ something he can’t see but his primate brain can definitely  _ feel  _ watching him, sending his instincts haywire. The corn feels alive in a different sense of the word, like it holds conscious thought, and exudes malevolence and loathing. He shoves his way through the stalks, but the growths all but reach out to trip him, and the corn silk tugs at his arms and shoulders as if trying to restrain him.

He might be imagining that, at least in part. It’s not really  _ actively  _ trying to kill him. But he doesn’t think it’s  _ that  _ much of a stretch. This is another extension off the crossroads—of Lotor—and the crossroads definitely wants him dead now.

He can feel power all around him, power that belongs to this place, and power that isn’t native, stolen away from unsuspecting debtors. This, he realizes, is where Lotor stores the things he’s taken. The cradle of his power, Acxa had called it, and now he understands. Lotor is weaker, but he is only an avatar of the _true_ lord of Oriande. If Shiro intends to break the crossroads open and purge away the corruption in it, he has to do it where the bad roots run deepest.

A clearing. He needs a clearing. Even a small one, for a chance to get started. He doesn’t dare cut down any of the corn stalks, but he shoves through them frantically, jumping at too-dark shadows and too-loud rustling noises that definitely aren’t him.

He finds what he needs after a few moments. It barely suffices—it’s a section of cut-back stalks just large enough for him to kneel in—but it will have to be enough. He tears the small container of purified salts from one of his pouches and sketches out a quick circle around himself with a speed born of years of practice and a great deal of urgency, and forces himself to sit inside it, no matter how much it makes him feel like a target. 

_ Patience yields focus.  _ And focus, and willpower, will be the key. He closes his eyes, concentrates, and takes a deep breath. “In the name of—”

The corn parts, and suddenly Lotor is  _ there,  _ with the shade still towering behind him like a twisted imitation of his shadow. His eyes are manic and wild eyed as he snarls, “You would  _ dare  _ to exorcise me like some wretched  _ poltergeist?”  _

The shade’s claws twitch, and the inky threads pull, and Lotor’s hand strikes like a rattlesnake, blasting apart the protective salt circle like dust and fastening around Shiro’s neck. It’s Lotor’s withered hand that grabs him, but it’s the shade’s claws that Shiro  _ feels,  _ digging into his skin like needles and dragging him closer. 

Shiro grits his teeth in pain, and coughs at the strike. But he quickly refocuses his will, and glaring into Lotor’s thousand-mile eyes, begins again. “In the—”

“Impudent human brat,” Lotor snarls. His voice is still the harsh, rasping thing it had become when Oriande shattered and the creature appeared, and the endless miles in his eyes are beginning to glow a dark violet. His elegant, presentable visage from before is gone. He remains the too-thin, withered thing spat out by melting shadows during the appeal, hair askew, clothing torn and ill-fitting. When he moves, the shade behind him moves in turn, like a perfect shadow. 

Or, no, Shiro realizes. The shade leads, and there’s just the barest second of hesitation before the avatar of the crossroads follows through. The oily, sticky shadow threads link them like marionette and puppeteer, and yet Lotor seems utterly unaware of the presence behind him.

The clawed hand squeezes, and Shiro chokes on his words, gasping for breath as his thoughts are driven from him in a panic. He raises both arms to dig into Lotor’s wrist, to try and pull his arm free or at least relieve the pressure on his throat. But although Lotor  _ looks  _ like a starved wreck, and his wrist is bony and thin, his grip is as strong as iron and unrelentingly firm.

“How can a weak thing like  _ you  _ ever hope to match wills against  _ me,  _ anyway?” Lotor sneers, eyes wild, showing sharp teeth in a hideous grin. “You can’t even match wits with yourself.”

The shade’s claws dig deeper and lift, and Lotor mimics easily, hauling Shiro off the ground until his toes dangle and kick uselessly. 

“Poor, stupid human,” Lotor drawls. “You don’t even know what you are, do you? What you intend to make of yourself? I can  _ feel  _ your turmoil from the past few days alone, you know. So much to bargain with.”

Shiro scrabbles against his arm. Raw dread fills his mind at Lotor’s words, and between that and his desperate, primal struggle to free himself and  _ breathe,  _ his mind is consumed with wild, frenzied panic.  _ No, no, no, no, nononono— _

“You don’t know yourself at all, do you?” Lotor continues. His grin is positively manic, and his thousand-mile eyes bore into Shiro’s as he watches his catch struggle at the end of his arm. “Homesick for murderers. How terrible. Perhaps you’ll never be good enough. Perhaps you’ve been lying to yourself the whole time. It’s difficult to accept the truth, when it comes calling, isn’t it? And you think you can face  _ me  _ with such a divided mind?”

_ I can’t,  _ Shiro realizes, clawing pathetically at Lotor’s wrist.  _ I can’t. I’m not strong enough for this. I never was. I never  _ have  _ been. It’s always been a charade.  _

“Poor Shirogane,” Lotor nearly purrs, voice rasping and cruel. “All these years, and still so mixed up in his own head. Ruthless, mindless champion of the Covenant, playing pretend so he feels better about himself? Or hopelessly alone ex-paladin, playing at morals and never, ever good enough to wash the blood from his hands?” He smiles, a cold smile full of sharp teeth. “You don’t know what you are. You don’t know what you stand for. You don’t fit in anywhere. And nobody else knows you as well as you do.” 

Shiro can’t breathe. His head feels fuzzy, and his eyes start to roll. His frantic scrabbling at Lotor’s wrist grows slower, weaker, and his fingers slip off of the ill-fitting armored cuffs the avatar of the crossroads wears. Lotor’s words whirl around in his head, cutting as deeply into his thoughts as the shade’s claws do his skin.  _ Ruthless. Mindless. Never good enough. Don’t know what you stand for. Hopelessly alone. Alone. Alone.  _

_ No.  _

No, not alone. Never alone. He hasn’t been alone for years. He had Allura almost as soon as he ran away from home. Coran, too. And then Keith. Lance. Hunk. Even Pidge, the short time he’s known her. They’re here now, fighting with him, no matter how much he’d  _ tried  _ to take care of this alone. They’d  _ accepted  _ him.

_ But they don’t know you,  _ a little thought in his head whispers, one that sounds disgustingly like Lotor’s maddened voice.  _ They don’t know how you think. They don’t know what you’ve done. They don’t know how much blood is on your hands and in your name, and how much you humanize the monsters you came from.  _

_ But they don’t care,  _ he counters.  _ They trust you. They’re here tonight because they believe in you. They have faith that you’re strong enough to do this.  _

Faith. In  _ Shiro.  _

And everything  _ clicks.  _

He has barely any strength left, but he pools what he has left for one last fight. He digs his fingers into Lotor’s armored cuff, and kicks up his left leg to swing it over Lotor’s extended arm. He twists and locks his foot against Lotor’s side, and suddenly he has enough leverage to keep pressure off of his throat. It’s not a  _ lot _ —Lotor’s hand still grips his neck firmly, and the shade’s claws dig deep.

But it’s enough to be able to speak, and that’s all that matters. 

“In the days of greater faith the Gods, in their Wisdom, did reach down and make a Paradise in the new world, and they did shelter Us there in the Halls of the Gods, and called it Home,” Shiro gasps, slowly at first as he catches his breath, and faster as he gains steam. “And it was Good, and the Gods proclaimed it Safe, and the Faith did grow.”

Lotor blinks in what can only be actual confusion, and even the shade seems too perplexed to act. “What are you doing?”

“But the Faith of the Gods did not reach back, across the great sea, to the land of Darkness and Desolation they once fled,” Shiro presses on, ignoring Lotor. “Here the Unbelievers and the Faithless reigned, and they did not see the light, and they did not believe.”

“What  _ is  _ this?” Lotor says, eyes narrowed, clearly suspicious. “I’m familiar with  _ thousands  _ of faiths, and this isn’t from any of them.”

Shiro sincerely doubts he’s ever heard of this one. He wouldn’t even be familiar with it, if it wasn’t recited in high-pitched religious fervor every time he stepped foot in Allura’s penthouse. 

He keeps going anyway. It’s all about  _ faith. _ About believing in himself, knowing he has the willpower to see this through...and when he can’t, knowing  _ others  _ believe in him and  _ know  _ he can. 

“In the Desolation one of the Unbelievers saw a Vision of Truth, and did say, This Is Not The Way,” he recites. “But the others did not Listen to His Wisdom. And so He walked alone out of the Darkness, by the light of Truth, and found His way to Paradise. And the Lion Goddess found Him, and did say, You Are Not What I Expected, and granted Him Her Blessing, and charged Him with upholding the Faith. So does the first High Priest of the Lion Goddess serve, in protecting the Innocent, and the Weak, and the Alone.” 

Lotor’s eyes widen, just a fraction, as he finally manages to connect the dots. 

He’s too late. Shiro wrenches against Lotor’s wrist with both hands, jams his leveraged foot as hard as he can into Lotor’s chest, and snaps, “In the name of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness, I cast you out!”

Lotor rocks back like Shiro had actually kicked him, and the shade above him jerks once. He glares at Shiro, and the shade’s fingers twitch around his neck. “Do you think  _ that  _ is enough to fight me?”

Shiro doesn’t. Thankfully, he has an entire pantheon of ‘religious figures’ to call upon, most of whom are just a few feet away.

_ Focus. Concentrate. Control. Everyone has faith you can do this. Faith can be converted to will, and will to strength. You  _ have  _ to be strong enough for this. No matter what he says, you  _ can.  _ The alternative is not an option. _

“In the name of the High Priest of Undying Loyalty, I refuse you passage here!”

“Stop it,” Lotor snaps. “Stop it. Stop that  _ now.”  _ The shade spasms above him, and Lotor does in turn, shaking Shiro like a rag doll. Shiro manages to hold on, and keeps his leg locked painfully around Lotor’s arm, but there’s nothing he can do about the shade’s claws digging harder into his neck. He chokes, and he can taste blood in his mouth from biting his tongue. 

But it doesn’t stop him from speaking. He burrows his fingers against Lotor’s to draw them away from his neck, and coughs, “In the name of the High Priest of Many Forms and Many Feelings, I deny your power.”

The shade thrashes, and Lotor shrieks in anger and pain. Shiro’s vision blurs as the avatar of the crossroads shakes him again,  _ hard,  _ but he swears he sees two of the oily threads linking the crossroads entity and his shadow snap. 

His grim satisfaction is short-lived. With a snarl, the shade moves, and Lotor moves with it, throwing Shiro hard into the ground. Dry, brittle vegetation stabs at his back, and the blow knocks the wind out of him, causing him to gasp feebly. He loses his leverage on Lotor’s arm as his leg is knocked free, and he rolls weakly to a stop against several of the corn stalks, coughing and spitting out blood into the dry dirt.

“Enough,” Lotor snarls, planting a foot on Shiro’s side. He’s panting harshly, and there’s something wild and dangerous in his eyes.  _ “Enough!  _ You have the  _ gall  _ to try and exorcise  _ me  _ with a rodent’s religion based on  _ yourself?  _ How arrogant, Shirogane. How  _ worthless.  _ How  _ insulting.  _ Here is a bargain for you: stop now, and I will gift you with a merciful death.”

Shiro coughs. Lifts his head. Looks first Lotor, and then the shade, straight in the eye. And whispers, through his own gasping breaths, and the looming pressure of the dark energy of the crossroads, “In the name of...the High Priest of...Most Holy and Spec...Spectacular Feasts...I tell you...you have no place here.”

Lotor snarls again, thrashing so hard he kicks Shiro in the ribs. Shiro yelps in pain, but refuses to let it distract him. The thing at Lotor’s back jerks spasmodically, and several more of the oily, shadow-skin threads snap. 

But it isn’t done yet, and the fight hasn’t left it. The shade raises its hand, and while Lotor sways on his feet like a broken marionette, he mimics the motion perfectly. The shade clenches its fist, and Lotor clenches his, and suddenly  _ everything  _ is pain. Every nerve in his body screams, every cell is on fire, every bone in his body feels shattered, every muscle tears, every part of him is gutted open and left on display. He suffers suffers sufferssuffers _ suffers _ —

_ — _ and it stops, and he collapses in a heap, and only then does he even realize he’s been thrashing, and only the burning in his throat tells him he’s been screaming. He’s not truly broken, his flesh is still mostly whole and his bones in one piece, but he aches  _ everywhere,  _ he  _ remembers  _ all of it vividly like it was real, he knows it will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his days…

Lotor stares down at him, panting harshly, limbs trembling, swaying as if only the shadow-skin threads of the shade hold him upright. Distantly, tiredly, Shiro wonders if  _ whatever  _ he had just done cost him, too. Lotor isn’t  _ supposed  _ to be able to hurt people, not if they haven’t bargained with him. Breaking the rules hurts him in a way only a cosmic force  _ can  _ be hurt. He doesn’t have that kind of power. 

But the shade did. Shiro’s weary, blurring gaze travels up the remaining oily, slippery threads to the creature’s claws. Some of them are bound to Lotor, and some of them dangle uselessly, like severed spider’s threads. And—he blinks to try and clear his vision, and blinks again, but it doesn’t go away—and one of the threads, thicker but fraying, weaves from the shade’s spine out into the white void, trailing away into nothingness. 

_ You aren’t from here,  _ the thought comes to him, from a long ways away.  _ You don’t belong. These aren’t your rules. Maybe you aren’t even here.  _

“Are you dead yet, Shirogane?” Lotor taunts, his voice harsh and agonized. “Your ghost is mine, when you die. I can torment you  _ forever  _ for this.”

Shiro takes a deep breath, as best as he can manage with how awful he feels, and whispers hoarsely, “In the name...of the High Priest...of Damn It Stop Trying to Get Yourself Killed...I refuse you any place here.”

Lotor shrieks in agony, and this time, Shiro hears the shade shriek too. Lightning fast, the shadow reaches for him, and Lotor does the same, digging his hands into the front of Shiro’s jacket and hauling him upright. Lotor’s withered arms tremble with the effort of lifting him this time, as he drags Shiro forward to glare him in the eyes. 

The thousands of miles of empty midnight roads are gone. Lotor’s eyes glow a sickly violet, and when he speaks, his voice is harsh and guttural. “The anima mundi is  _ mine,”  _ he snarls, and Shiro has the sudden, strange feeling that although Lotor is speaking, it’s not really  _ Lotor  _ speaking anymore. “I worked too hard to claim it. I will not relinquish it!” 

_ The  _ anima mundi. _ The soul of the world.  _ What a dangerous thing for  _ anyone  _ to try and control.

The pressure around them grows heavy. The shade looms like a malevolent force, and Oriande crackles with power, and the ground trembles beneath their feet. The raw  _ potential,  _ the raw  _ energy  _ around them is unfathomable, and in the hands of this unknown thing, absolutely devastating. 

Lotor’s hand, and the shade’s claws, reach for Shiro’s face—

—and Shiro looks the intruder dead in the eyes, and yells with the last of his physical strength and mental will, “In the name of the Lion Goddess, I command you to leave this place and never return. Oriande is not yours. You. Are. Not. Wanted.” 

The joint screams of the shade and the avatar of the crossroads are agonizingly loud, and Shiro claps his hands over his ears out of reflex. Lotor’s fingers twitch and spasm in his jacket, and his back arches as his head snaps up to the void-sky and he releases a tortured howl. Power crackles around them, violet and gold lightning that strikes the earth, and the whole world rumbles. 

There’s a sick, wet-sounding  _ snap,  _ as dozens of oily shadow threads rip. Above them, the shade spasms and curls on itself, and the thread leading to the void twists and frays, and with an almighty  _ crack  _ like a whip, snaps in two. The creature screams in hate and in pain, form collapsing in on itself. It shatters into dust, whirls, and hurtles off into the endless void. 

Lotor gasps. Oriande rumbles. And the coalesced power of the crossroads, finally freed, thunders out in a concussive force from them, cutting through the cornfields like a storm. Cornstalks are flattened under the assault of pure  _ power,  _ and raw corn disintegrates in its path, leaving a trail of shredded vegetation in its wake. Power flashes, and the void-sky is gone, and a dulled country sky returns, with a pale sun beating weakly down on them. 

Slowly, Lotor’s hands uncurl from Shiro’s jacket, and Shiro is finally allowed to stagger back a few steps, away from him. His legs tremble beneath him, and  _ everything  _ hurts  _ everywhere.  _ But Shiro stubbornly stays on his feet, unsure of what comes next. 

Lotor stares, arms drooping at his sides. The thousands of midnight miles rushing past in his irises are back, always moving, and he seems to be a thousand miles away with them. He doesn’t attack, or speak, and if Shiro had to hazard a guess, he’d say Lotor was in shock...if cosmic forces even  _ could  _ be in shock. 

But then Lotor sways on his feet, and crashes to his knees. His eyes roll back in his head, taking the endless roads with him. He keels over sideways, collapsing onto the broken stalks of corn, messy hair splayed out like a halo around him. 

And honestly, Shiro thinks he has the right idea. He drops to his own hands and knees, panting wearily, exhausted, and waiting for whatever Oriande has left to throw at him. 

Whatever it is, he can handle it, and he won’t be alone.


	23. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Eight

“It was weird, feeling sorry for a member of the Covenant. I didn’t like it. Life was so much simpler when it was black and white. Unfortunately for me, the deeper I got, the more things seemed to depend on shades of gray.”   
—Antimony Price,  _ Magic for Nothing  _

**_Oriande, the world of the crossroads, exhausted and still with a fight to come_ **

It doesn’t take long for the others to reach them. There’s no way they could have missed seeing the wild release of power as Shiro finished the exorcism, but even if they hadn’t, the cornfields are devastated now. There’s nothing hiding him or Lotor from the view of the others at the road, and to a person all of them—friend and foe alike—charge across the shredded fields towards them. 

Keith, the fastest of anyone present, reaches the epicenter of the blast first. He slides into a crouch next to Shiro, putting a hand on both shoulders to steady him. “Takashi! Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Shiro rasps. His voice sounds awful, hoarse from having screamed so much, and he adds, “Mostly.”

The rest of his friends gather around him, voicing their own concerns, which he dutifully waves off. They look tired and hurt too—Lance is limping, and Pidge clutches at one of her spindly bogeyman wrists like it pains her—but all of them are alive. 

Relieved, he turns his attention to Lotor, just as his crossroads ghosts reach him. They gather around him helplessly, before Zethrid drops to her knees and carefully lifts the avatar of the crossroads as easily as if he weighed nothing. His head flops limply against her shoulder, and his eyes remain closed. He no longer looks as wretched and starved as he had under the influence of the shade, and the hideous, manic expressions of before no longer mar his face. But his chosen form is still too thin, weak and sickly, a reflection of the battered and nearly broken state of the crossroads. 

_ Anima mundi,  _ the trespasser had called him. Soul of the world. The world doesn’t look healthy, and that can’t be good for anyone.

Maybe it had been too late to rip out the invader. Maybe the shade had dug too deep, damaged too much, like a parasite feeding on its host’s insides. Shiro might have freed the crossroads, but he hopes he hasn’t destroyed them in the process.

Ezor places an anxious hand on Zethrid’s shoulder. Shiro can’t tell if she’s giving support, or desperately searching for it from her companion. “Master?” she whispers. “Are you—is he—”

Narti ducks close, crouching next to Zethrid and extending one of her hands. She places it on Lotor’s forehead, and her eyes glow as she sees something none of the rest of them are capable of. Lotor doesn’t respond to her touch, or move, but after a long moment something glimmers beneath his eyes—the same markings he’d worn when he’d first showed himself to Shiro. 

Shiro breathes a sigh of relief. Alive. Or at least, whatever passes for ‘alive’ for a cosmic force.

Acxa stands over them, approaching slowly. “Narti,” she says. “Is he...is he like before? Before the bargains changed, when he offered us chances…”

Narti’s head cocks for a long moment as she continues to stare sightlessly into the distance. Then, slowly and silently, she nods once. 

Zethrid’s jaw drops. “He’s back to before? But that’s impossible! He made damn sure we knew what he’d do to us if we talked about the way things  _ used  _ to be.”

“It wasn’t him,” Acxa says softly. “All this time, it wasn’t even him, and we didn’t  _ know… _ ”

“But he’s better now?” Ezor asks. “I mean...sort of. He could  _ get  _ better, right?” 

Narti nods again, once, and withdraws her hand from Lotor’s forehead.

Even ten thousand years dead, Acxa’s sigh of shaky relief is enormous. “Thank goodness. Thank the universe.” She closes her eyes a moment, and then turns to face Shiro. “And thank  _ you.  _ I wasn’t sure if that would work, but...thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Shiro says hoarsely. “Thanks for trusting me enough to go along with it.”

Ezor scowls at her. “Is  _ that  _ why you turned traitor on us?” she asks, giving Shiro and the others an irritable look, and rubbing the gash Keith had given her on her arm.

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Acxa admits. “But when they trapped me in a ward and told me their plan...I had to try. I  _ had  _ to. He was  _ wrong.  _ That wasn’t the same force I agreed to serve, and there was no escape.”

Ezor shudders. “Yeah,” she whispers, after a moment. “He was...he was scary. Like that. After what he did to the others...I was afraid he’d turn on us too, one day.”

Zethrid glances up at Ezor for a moment, and then down to the avatar of the crossroads cradled carefully in her arms. “No place to run if he did,” she agrees. “And no way to protect ourselves, or each other, no matter how much we might’ve wanted to.” She looks up at Shiro and the others, and while her gaze is cautious and wary, she grudgingly says, “Fine. Thanks, I guess.”

“No hard feelings about beating each other up,” Ezor adds, smiling—perhaps a little too smugly—at Hunk. Or more precisely, at the large bruise on his face, which no doubt came from her.

Narti says nothing at all. But she does nod her head in approximation of a respectful bow in their general direction.

“How touching. Now let us be finished with this.”

Sanda stalks towards them over the rows of shredded corn, dry vegetation crunching beneath her feet. Her firearm is gone, so she must have finally run out of viable ammunition, but the sword from earlier is in her hands once more and held at the ready. Her eyes fall to Lotor, dormant and still in Zethrid’s hold, and her intent is obvious.

The ghosts move instantly. Zethrid curls forward around the crossroads avatar, using her stocky body as a defensive shield. Ezor flips easily over Zethrid’s shoulder, and she and Acxa both take defensive stances in front of her. Narti’s hands fling wide in preparation for some sort of defensive spell. There’s far more vigor to their movements, and far more determination in their readiness to fight, fueled by genuine loyalty rather than fear. 

But Shiro moves faster still. For all his exhaustion, he has a little more work to do yet, and he’s been expecting this. So when Sanda swings her sword in the first strike to clear the opposition, Shiro intervenes, blocking the blade with his own knife, just like he had on the streets. 

“Enough,” he says. “We’re done here. It’s over. We got rid of what we came for.”

Sanda’s eyes narrow at him. “You want to let that  _ thing  _ survive? To keep preying on the innocent with devil’s deals?”

“That won’t happen anymore. The bargains will be fair again,” Shiro says. 

“They shouldn’t exist at all!” Sanda snaps. “It needs to be  _ destroyed _ —”

“Look  _ around  _ you,” Shiro counters. “Look at this place.  _ Feel  _ it. This is a part of our world, Sanda.  _ He’s  _ a part of it. Destroy this, and you’ll hurt more than just him and a few ghosts.” 

“This isn’t what we agreed to!” Sanda says angrily. “I swore to leave your... _ companions  _ alone, and to help you with this mission, in order to destroy the crossroads!”

“No,” Shiro says. “I told you from the beginning, the goal was to end the crossroads’ corruption. We’ve done that. You  _ saw  _ that thing above him, at the end—that thing was the reason for those ‘devil’s deals,’ as you call them. It’s gone. We’re done here.”

“You’re not seeing sense,” Sanda snaps. “You speak in half-truths like that  _ thing.  _ You’ve been blinded—”

_ “No,”  _ Shiro says forcefully.  _ “You’re  _ letting your own views blind you.  _ Think,  _ Sanda. You can’t feel that evil anymore, can you? It was everywhere when we came here.  _ All  _ of us were afraid of it. It’s gone.”

Sanda hesitates. She still looks furious, like she doesn’t want to accept the truth of his words...but she knows the truth is  _ there.  _

“We’re done here,” Shiro repeats quietly. “Acxa?”

“Yes,” she answers, catching his point immediately. She steps forward and touches his shoulder, and suddenly they’re on the sidewalk next to the infamous crash intersection. 

It’s still just a little past midnight in the real world, and plunging back into the near darkness of full night after the overcast country skies of Oriande is disorienting. Lance curses something in Spanish under his breath, and Hunk yelps in surprise as he hastily replaces his illusion headband to hide his living hair. Even Keith looks momentarily confused, despite having the best night vision of the lot of them—the false sun of Oriande hadn’t hurt him, but the switch from day to night is still a lot for his sensitive eyes. 

Shiro blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the streetlamp-interspersed darkness, while still locking blades with Sanda. She looks equally disoriented by the sudden environmental change, thankfully, which probably explains why she hadn’t struck out against them. 

The rest of the ghosts, and Lotor, are gone. But Acxa is still there, by Shiro’s side, for just a moment. “Thank you,” she tells him again. In the gloom he’s rapidly adjusting to, he can just make out her relieved expression, softening her features and making her look almost  _ happy.  _ “I can’t say it enough. Thank you for everything you’ve done this night.”

And then she, too, is gone, vanished into thin air as though she’d never been.

Sanda shakes her head once, and glares across at him coldly. “You broke the terms of our agreement,” she says. “I have half a mind to consider my oath null and void, considering.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “I broke nothing,” he says flatly. “I never promised to destroy the crossroads. And if you attack any of my friends, I  _ will  _ fight back.” 

Around him, everyone tenses. Everyone is exhausted and hurting—Sanda among them—and if they’re forced into a fight after what happened in Oriande, it  _ will  _ go badly for everyone involved. But if Sanda pushes the matter, he’ll have no choice.

For a long moment, nobody moves, and everyone is silent.

“We struck a  _ huge  _ blow today, Sanda,” Shiro finally breaks the silence. “Even you have to see that. Tonight was a victory any way you look at it.”

Sanda studies him carefully. Then, finally, she drops her sword to her side once more. Several of Shiro’s friends twitch reflexively, but when she doesn’t press the attack, they nervously settle.

“I will concede the crossroads have certainly been weakened,” Sanda agrees, after a long moment. “And I will concede that would not have been possible without your assistance.” She doesn’t say anything about the others, but while it’s unfair, it’s probably safer. 

“Then our agreement is still in effect?” Shiro asks, insistent. He’s not letting her or anyone else go without being  _ sure  _ she won’t hunt them down the moment he’s not looking.

“Twenty-four hours,” Sanda confirms. “I will grant your companions that long to try and disappear. After that…” Her gaze flicks to the others, settling on Pidge for half a second longer than the rest, before flicking back to Shiro. “After that, I will continue to do my job.”

Twenty four hours. It’s not great. But it is enough time for Shiro to try and figure out a solution to the Sanda issue. Now that he can put all of his focus behind it, with the crossroads issue taken care of... _ maybe  _ he can find a solution. 

“Good,” he says out loud. Then, to his friends, “Everyone, scatter.”

Keith, predictably, is the first to voice his protest. “What? I’m not leaving you behind with  _ her!”  _

“Yeah,” Lance says. “She’s just as dangerous for you as us!”

Sanda’s face twists in an offended fury. Before she can say anything that will spark flames, Shiro intervenes. “She swore on the soul of St. George,” he tells them curtly. “I realize that doesn’t mean anything to most of you, but for the Covenant, understand that’s a  _ big  _ deal. An oath made by St. George is practically sacred. She won’t come after  _ any  _ of us for twenty-four hours.” 

Sanda looks somewhat mollified at the explanation. She nods curtly in agreement, although she doesn’t say anything out loud.

“Go,” Shiro repeats. “Get to a safe place, take care of your injuries, and rest. I’ll call you when I’m safe, too.” 

“But—” Pidge begins.

But Keith, after staring at him for a long moment, seems to get what Shiro is trying to say without  _ saying  _ it. “Let’s go,” he says, grabbing Pidge by the shoulder and shoving her off down the street, in the opposite direction of Shiro’s car. “You hurt your wrist. And you—” he points at Lance, smart enough not to use names in front of Sanda, “ —you’re limping, you should get that looked at. We’ll talk to Takashi later.”

“But—” Lance tries to protest next.

_ “Now,”  _ Keith barks, with such a warning edge that Lance actually snaps his jaw shut with an audible click of teeth. Keith doesn’t use that voice often. In the rare instance he does, Shiro vaguely understands why some humans had ascribed mind control powers to vampires; it’s very hard to say ‘no.’ 

But Shiro is thankful Keith, at least, picked up on what he’d been hinting at. Just because Sanda won’t attack any of them, doesn’t mean she can’t  _ follow  _ them. Shiro can keep her occupied long enough for them to get away, find a late-night bus or taxi, and take a few deliberately wrong turns to shake a tail. He doesn’t want Sanda finding out about Allura. That’s a secret they have to protect at  _ all  _ costs. 

They disappear around the corner, Keith leading the way with the other three trailing reluctantly after him, arguing amongst themselves low enough to not be heard. Shiro keeps half an eye out on them while keeping the bulk of his attention focused on Sanda. She has to know what he’s up to, but she doesn’t attack or move to flee—merely re-sheathes the sword in the scabbard hidden under her longcoat. 

“You can’t protect them indefinitely,” she says, after a long moment of silence. “I will find them eventually. The little bogeyman, especially. She’s been spying on Covenant outposts. I suspect an attack is imminent.”

“It isn’t,” Shiro says bluntly. “Having spoken to her, I can assure you of that with confidence.”

“You can’t know. They lie. It’s what they do.”

“It isn’t,” Shiro says flatly. 

“You would risk the lives of your family on that? Your friends? Your teachers?”

Shiro stares across at her for a long time, but his mind is a million miles away. He thinks back to the old family estate, and Penton Hall, and the training outposts he’d visited all over Europe. To his mother and father, and the other instructors besides Sanda, and the other junior agents he’d trained alongside. All of them were people he had loved and trusted, once, trained alongside and laughed with.  _ Would  _ he risk their lives, if there was an attack? 

He honestly doesn’t know the answer to that question, and that scares him.

_ You don’t know what you are. You don’t know what you stand for.  _ Lotor’s corrupted voice taunts him. He’d fought through it, he’d denied it, but there’s an undeniable truth to the words all the same.

She must see the confusion in his face. To his surprise, her severe expression softens, just a bit. “You  _ do  _ miss home, don’t you,” she states. “Your family. Your friends. Despite your lapse in judgement, they still mean something to you.”

Yes. No. He doesn’t know. Why does Sanda have to make everything so  _ difficult?  _ It was easy to run, at first; he fled because he didn’t agree with what the Covenant did, and he still doesn’t, and he never  _ will.  _ But it was so much easier to hold to his convictions when he didn’t have the ugly reminder in front of him that the people he ran away from were  _ people,  _ even if they were  _ wrong.  _ It had been so much easier when he could just pretend they didn’t exist, and bury them as far back in his memory as possible.

“The twenty-four hour extension applies to you as well, you know,” Sanda tells him smoothly. “You have another day to think over your...previous decision. I still haven’t reported my findings back to Penton Hall. If you choose to return, I can still sweep all of this under the rug, Takashi. You can still go home.”

_ Home.  _ What  _ is  _ home, anymore? Why can’t everything be so simplistically black and white? Why does everything have to be so complicated?

But Pidge would still die. So would the rest of his friends. Sanda’s offer probably sounds kindly to her, but she won’t extend the same sort of leniency to the others. 

“There is no attack,” Shiro says instead. “I would stake my life on that being the truth. She was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Hunting for information about illegal magics?” Sanda asks, disbelieving. 

“What she was doing is none of your business,” Shiro tells her frankly. “It’s of no threat to the Covenant. Just let her go.”

“I can’t do that,” Sanda says. “You know that.”

“And I can’t let you kill her,” Shiro returns. 

“Then I suppose we shall be facing off again shortly, once the twenty four hour grace period is past,” Sanda tells him. Her voice is coldly professional, but Shiro swears there’s honest regret in her eyes. 

They fall silent. It’s only been a few minutes...not quite long enough for the rest of his friends to have put enough distance between themselves and Sanda. Shiro has no intention of letting her out of his sight, but Sanda doesn’t seem interested in making a break for it. She knows exactly what he’s up to. She doesn’t seem to particularly care, at least for the moment.

To his surprise, she strides over to the same bench he’d sat on just yesterday, and settles down wearily on one side of it. Sanda would rather die before saying it, but he can see the way her limbs tremble a little as she sits. He wonders how many more years of field work she has left in her. 

After a cautious moment, Shiro joins her on the opposite side, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. After everything he did in Oriande, he’s exhausted, and he still hurts everywhere. He has no intention of dropping his guard, but sitting...sitting is a relief. 

“You did well, tonight,” Sanda says abruptly.

Shiro blinks in surprise, and slowly turns to face her. “What?”

Sanda stares carefully ahead of herself, across the dim streets. Shiro’s not a fool enough to think that means she’s vulnerable. If he were stupid enough to attack her, even without her looking in his direction, he knows she’d have a counter-measure ready. 

But she doesn’t seem concerned about an attack. “Tonight. You did well. You analyzed the combat situation in its entirety. Moved all the pieces into place to form a unified front to strike at the enemy. Negotiated a truce in the middle of combat. And led all of your followers out of the attack with no casualties. Even if they were monsters, it was clear they trusted you unconditionally. Those are all the hallmarks of an excellent commanding officer.”

For the first time, she turns to face him, looking him dead in the eye. “You’re an excellent leader, Takashi. Your parents would have been very proud of you. In different circumstances, I think you truly could have been a good force commander for the Covenant.”

Even six and a half years ago, Shiro’s heart would have swelled with pride at the praise. All he’d ever wanted then was to make his parents and his instructors proud. To  _ earn  _ the right to his surname. Sanda had been a fair trainer, but a hard one, and didn’t dole out compliments easily. He would have worn that like a badge of pride, delighted in the knowledge that one of the best agents in the Covenant had seen something so good in him.

Now he tries to imagine himself, in full Covenant battle array, leading a team of elite human combatants. All he can think of is the way he could have struck down his own friends, in very different circumstances, and never known any better. Cut down a starving teenage vampire that had resorted to preying on people because he didn’t understand another way. Led the task force that wiped out an entire den of chupacabra and called it a victory. Wiped out an invasion of werelions in Garrison, and put to the torch any other cryptid that got in the way, student or otherwise. Hunted down and executed a bogeyman in the wrong place at the wrong time, all for the crime of having entered a single bookshop. 

He shudders at the thought, but says nothing. 

“It was an excellently handled exorcism, as well,” Sanda continues, looking away again. “Something of that magnitude...I will admit I’m impressed with your results. It would have taken several Covenant agents to achieve the same effect...other than perhaps your own esteemed parents.” Her lips actually twitch for just a moment in a fond smile. “The Shirogane clan has always been excellent at manipulating spirits, though. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at all.” 

“It had to be done,” Shiro said. “If I didn’t, none of us would have gotten out of there alive.” 

“So you still have  _ some  _ sense of duty,” Sanda notes. “I still believe you were misguided in permitting that... _ thing  _ to continue existing, though. It truly is a shame. You could have been so much more than this.”

Shiro closes his eyes for a moment. “I don’t ever want to be that. I’m not misguided. What the Covenant does, hunting down anything that isn’t human, is wrong.”

“I’ve seen enough suffering human families to know you’re the one who is wrong.”

“And I’ve seen enough suffering  _ cryptid  _ families to know they look at us the same way,” Shiro snaps. “You want to talk about monsters?  _ We’re  _ the monsters, to them. We’re the people that break into their homes in the dead of night and slaughter their whole families, even if they never did anything to a human. We’ve got to get better at understanding we’re  _ not  _ the only species in this world that matters. They matter  _ too.  _ They’re important to the world  _ too. _ ”

Sanda gives him an odd look. “You really believe that, don’t you? That we can just  _ coexist  _ without killing one another.”

“Yes,” Shiro says firmly. “I do. Look at what we  _ did  _ today, Sanda. We did something good. All of us.  _ Together.  _ Humans and non-humans, Covenant and cryptid. We took down something dangerous to  _ all  _ of us, and cleansed something important to the whole world. Can’t you see how huge that is?”

Sanda stares at him for a long moment. “I will concede that your companions acted with more...honor, than I am accustomed to, with their...species,” she says slowly. “I expected them to break their oath to you at any moment to turn on me. That they didn’t was...unanticipated. Nor did I expect them to take orders from you without argument.”

“See?” Shiro presses. “They’re not as bad as you think. If you just took the time to try and understand them—”

“A handful of individuals doesn’t determine the whole species,” Sanda says flatly.

“By that same logic, it doesn’t make them all  _ murderers  _ either,” Shiro argues. “If you tried to understand them, you’d realize they aren’t all bloodthirsty. They’re just people. Some of them are terrible people, yes, but most of them are good.”

Sanda looks troubled by his words. Shiro’s not sure if it’s because he’s starting to make sense to her, or if it’s because she thinks he’s lost his goddamn mind and she’s sorry to see him fall. 

She stands, unexpectedly. “Your companions should have had enough time to escape me,” she says, somewhat dryly. “I believe I will take my leave, assuming you... _ permit  _ it.” The cool stare she gives him tells him in no uncertain terms that she’d humored him by staying in one place, but that if he actually tries to restrain her, he’ll have a difficult time of it.

He’s actually sorry to see her go. Maybe if he’d had a chance to talk to her further, to dig deeper into their current conversation, to get  _ through  _ to her…

But maybe that’s why she’s leaving, now. Maybe she doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe, just maybe, she can hear that tiny kernel of truth, and she’s afraid to reach out to it. It had frightened Shiro, too, when he first stumbled across it. 

He doesn’t want her to run away from this. Not when this could make such a huge difference. But he can’t force her to accept it, either. And that hurts, like a rusty blade to the chest. 

So he says quietly, “Leave in a different direction then they did,” and leaves it at that.

She  _ humphs  _ under her breath, but nods. “Goodbye for now, Takashi,” she says, as she settles her longcoat neatly around herself, to carefully obscure any trace of weaponry. “You can still call, in the next twenty four hours. I can still take you home. I hope you will make the right choice. If not...”

_ Then I’ll meet you again in combat,  _ she doesn’t have to say. 

She crosses the street quickly and efficiently. The last trace of her Shiro sees is an obscure shadow by the light of one of the dim streetlamps. Then she’s gone, around the corner, and Shiro can finally breathe. 

Twenty four hours. He has one last choice to make in twenty-four hours. 

And he still has no idea what the solution will be.

* * *

Shiro forestalls the decision for a little while, in favor of rest. He’s  _ exhausted,  _ and he hurts everywhere, even if most of it is in his head. There are puncture wounds in his neck from the shade’s claws, not deep enough to do serious damage, and he’s bruised from being tossed around by Lotor. But most of his residual pain is from Lotor’s strange punishment attack, and none of it is real.

He goes back to the Snick Snack Motel, for now. With Sanda still in Garrison, he doesn’t dare head back to his apartment, not until that issue is resolved. He has his car now, thanks to the rest of the team, and he checks for tracers and tails, but he finds nothing. That’s not hard to believe, since Sanda was just as exhausted as he was, and had probably gone back to whatever hotel she’d picked to rest up for the night.

His motel room is still a mess, with a scuffed salt ward in the center and all the furniture shoved off to one side. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with cleaning it, so he just locks the doors, patches his neck up as best as he can with his first aid kit, drags the bed out of the corner, and collapses on the hard mattress. He spares just enough of his lagging strength to check for messages from the others—Lance reports they’d made it back to Allura safely—and to text the others that he’s back at the motel as well. Then he drops his phone on the nightstand, and passes out cold for eight solid hours.

When he wakes, he feels a little better, at least physically. He’s still sore everywhere from being thrown around by a literal force of nature, and his muscles are stiff. But the residual pain from the mental attack seems to have faded, and he’s not bone weary.

He showers, which helps with the soreness, and wolfs down a peanut butter sandwich from his decoy ghost ward supplies for a meager breakfast. There are no new messages from the team, when he checks his phone. 

And then he can’t put off thinking about the Sanda situation any further. In about fourteen hours, a Covenant agent will be on the loose again. She’ll be after Pidge specifically, but now she knows about the existence of at least three other cryptids, and their species. Even Lance, whom she hadn’t been able to identify at first, would have outed himself as a chupacabra in combat. It means they’re  _ all  _ in danger, and if he doesn’t figure out a solution fast, his friends will pay the price.

But try as he might, his thoughts come right back to every solution he had considered two nights ago. The crossroads are out of the picture now, but Sanda is still an unsolvable solution.

If he remains here, and doesn’t take Sanda up on her offer, she’ll hunt. She’ll come to kill him, specifically to protect his family from the knowledge that he is a so-called traitor. 

He believes her, when she says she’ll take him down. Like she had told him, his parents had extended her a hand of welcome before he’d even been born, and she had a great deal of respect for them. It was part of the reason why she was trying so hard to convince him to come back. But if he forced her hand, she  _ would  _ kill him and bury the evidence, all to preserve their last memories of him as “acceptable” ones. 

If he takes her up on her offer, he’ll get to live. Most likely, at least. If he was very unlucky, and Sanda’s efforts to smooth things over didn’t go as planned, he would be relentlessly interrogated and executed as a traitor. Taking Sanda up on her offer might only delay his death, not avoid it.

Even if he did survive, life with the Covenant would be hard, even if he  _ did  _ believe their vile teachings about cryptids. He would never be treated with the same trust or respect again, and would remain the black sheep of the organization until the day he died. Sanda would always be watching him, and she would have a few trusted others doing the same. There would be no way to climb the ladder of success, or work his way into the position of leadership Sanda had said he was suited for before, even if he would only want the title to try and push the Covenant away from indiscriminate murder. His actions would be a black stain on the pristine Shirogane name. It might even have an adverse effect on his parents, and even his descendants, if he had any. 

But even if it would save his own skin, his friends would still die. Sanda would make sure of it. She knew their faces and their species; even if he’d been careful not to use names around them, it was only a matter of time. She’d remarked multiple times on their loyalty to him. She wouldn’t be able to let them live, knowing full well they might mount some kind of rescue mission for him. 

And if she found them, she could find Allura. None of them would talk willingly, but a skilled interrogator could make anyone talk, in the end. Some of them would be harder to crack than others, but it would only take one, and she  _ would _ find Allura. And when she found Allura, she would have the key to the whole city. A purge would inevitably come. The only person that can reliably counter any Covenant methods is Shiro...which means he can’t give himself up as willingly as that. 

So he can’t say no to her offer, but he can’t say yes, either. What the hell is he supposed to do?

He flops back onto the hard mattress in frustration, and winces in regret when it jars all of his sore muscles. There has to be an answer here. There  _ has  _ to be. He figured out a solution to the  _ crossroads,  _ and that was supposed to be nearly impossible. If he can outmaneuver a millennia-old force of nature, he can figure out a way around a single human being. 

Was there a third option?

_ Get her on our side.  _

Shiro had entertained the notion before, as a helpless fantasy, when he’d first fled the Covenant. That all of his old friends and family could see the error of their ways. That they would come to regret, and learn to do things differently, and become  _ real  _ protectors of the innocent. It had been a pipe dream he’d given up on long ago.

But for the first time, he actually begins to consider it as a possibility.

Sanda had worked willingly with four cryptids and a crossroads ghost. It had been to strike out at a much larger goal, and a partnership of necessity. But she’d  _ done  _ it, which was more than Shiro would  _ ever  _ have expected from someone as stern and devoted to her cause as Sanda was. She’d accepted the oath of a vampire, a chupacabra, a gorgon, a bogeyman, and a ghost at face value, even if it had been mostly because she’d trusted him, and not them. More impressively, she’d kept her own end of the bargain, strictly adhering to not attacking any of them for the duration of the mission. 

And she had the opportunity to kill them, if she’d wanted to. She’d deliberately saved Hunk against Zethrid, and actively maneuvered herself into a position where she wouldn’t accidentally shoot him. She’d helped keep the ghosts off of her own target, Pidge. She’d distracted Lotor enough to give Shiro the few precious seconds he needed to start the exorcism. Most importantly, she hadn’t tried to kill any of his friends after the battle, and had permitted him to stalemate her long enough for them to get away. 

She’d had a good experience with cryptids. Maybe for the first time in her decades of life. And wasn’t that all it took? Shiro had been so sure what the Covenant taught him was right, too, up until the point he’d stumbled across Pidge’s brother. He’d been confused for months after that. He’d questioned. 

And she  _ had  _ been confused, last night when they talked. She’d left the moment the conversation wasn’t in her control anymore, but if nothing else he’d made her think. Even if all he’d made her think was that he was crazy, she’d still realized that he wouldn’t bend to standard Covenant morality lectures anymore. Not when he had clear proof that at least a few cryptids weren’t inherently evil. 

It was a hard truth to accept. Shiro knew, because he’d  _ been  _ there. When your entire life had exposed you to only the horrors and the awful things the cryptid community caused, it was hard to see anything but those awful things. To suddenly learn maybe it  _ wasn’t  _ like that came with a difficult realization, because it meant that maybe  _ you  _ were the wrong, awful one, and in your ignorance you had done terrible things, and it was...it was heavy. It was  _ still  _ heavy for him, six years later, no matter how hard he fought to redeem himself. 

And for Sanda, it would be harder. A  _ lot  _ harder. Shiro had been young when he first made his realization; only eighteen, and only active as a Covenant junior cadet for a few years. He’d done awful things, but his deeds as an agent couldn’t hold a candle to Sanda’s thirty years of active service. 

And Shiro had grown up surrounded by people who had been hurt by cryptids, but he’d never  _ personally  _ suffered. He’d never lost family, friends, or a significant other to a cruel end at the hands of a cryptid. Sanda had, and her grief and rage had fueled her for the next thirty years of her life, and shaped her whole purpose for herself. It would be much harder for her to accept that the creatures who had caused her such personal loss could also be worth protecting.

Could she change? Could she see differently? 

Maybe. Maybe she could, if Shiro had enough time to work with her. If he had a chance to introduce her to more of the community, and show her the good things, and that they weren’t all inherently evil. If she had a chance to see they had just as much honor and compassion and intelligence and love as humans did—if she could see how much grief and rage the Covenant had caused, akin to her own—

But Shiro doesn’t have that kind of time. It would be the work of months, at best, and he has less than a day. 

Could he try to make another pact with her? Offer to teach her, if she would be serious about listening? But no, he doubts she would take him up on that. In the light of day it will be much easier for her to write off any uncertainties she had last night as exhaustion from the fight. And without a guarantee that she will  _ never  _ go back to the Covenant again, he can’t expose her to the community. She could just as easily gather information about them, and then kill them all when she’s no longer oathbound to leave them alone.

Could he go with her, in exchange for what he’d learned? Bargain with her to spare his friends, and offer to tell her about what he’d seen? Could he use it as an opportunity to show his old friends and family a better way? 

The elders of the old blood families might not see things from his point of view and would be difficult to change. But some of the junior cadets, the ones he’d grown up with, trained alongside, laughed and cried with—they might still have a chance. They hadn’t been drenched in decades of blood they could never wash out, or had years to see only the ugly things in the cryptid community. 

Adam, Hira, Seok, Ginger, Curtis, Mary Ann—didn’t they have a  _ right  _ to learn they could do things differently? Didn’t he owe that to them, if even someone as set in her ways as  _ Sanda  _ could be made to question, if only for a moment? They thought what they were doing was right, just like him. If they had a chance to see otherwise, maybe they could change. Maybe he wouldn’t be so alone. 

But he would never be allowed to get away with that, either. Sanda would still be watching him, even if he did somehow hash out a deal like that. She wouldn’t let him plant a little seed of doubt into other Covenant agents’ minds. No matter how desperately he wishes he could save them from that, no matter how much he misses them, he has no way to save them either. And their lives aren’t immediately on the line, anyway, as much as it hurts him to admit it.

Shiro groans, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. What is he supposed to  _ do?  _ How can he save anyone here? 

A sharp rap comes from the door. 

Shiro’s head jerks up in alarm, and he glances at the door to his motel room. A quick glance at his phone shows no warning texts about anyone coming to visit, and he’d made it clear all of them should lay low via text the moment he was able to. If they left Allura’s place and Sanda saw them, she could easily tail them back to the penthouse, wait until the twenty four hours were up, and kill them. Everyone had grudgingly agreed to stay indoors for the day. 

His friends shouldn’t be here, then. But nobody else should know where he is. 

For the second time in as many days, Shiro snatches a knife from his weapons pile and stalks carefully to the door, just as the sharp knock comes again. He takes a deep breath and glances through the peephole.

Acxa stares back at him, patiently waiting, thousands of miles of empty roads whirling past in her gaze.

Shiro frowns, but slowly unlatches the door. He stays safely inside the warded perimeter, just in case, and stares across the threshold at the crossroads ghost. “What are you doing here?” he asks, bewildered.

“I would have popped in directly, but you still have your ghost wards up,” Acxa says, with the barest hint of raised brows.

“They’re specifically still there so ghosts  _ don’t  _ pop in directly,” he points out. “I’ve got enough problems on my plate right now without adding ghosts to the mix.”

“Fair enough,” Acxa admits. “Then I’ll try to take as little of your time as possible. He would like to speak with you.”

Shiro blinks at her. “Lotor?”

She nods.

“I don’t want to make a bargain,” he states flatly. “I did what I had to, and I’m done with the crossroads.”

“It’s just to talk,” she says reassuringly. “I will oversee, and step in if a bargain is to take place, as your representative. A  _ true  _ representative this time, not a con artist.”

He frowns at her thoughtfully. He’s still wary of the crossroads, but Acxa had been legitimately grateful to him and his friends last night for saving her master. She’d also taken her job as a crossroads ghost seriously. If she says she’ll really arbitrate, he believes her. She owes him that much.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m not going without my weapons. Give me five minutes to gear up.”

Acxa frowns. “My master will not harm you.”

“Your master wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to harm me last night, either,” Shiro says bluntly, “But I’ve got the bruises to prove otherwise.”

She says nothing to argue the point, which he takes as a grudging acceptance. He closes the door on her, even though she can’t actually enter at all, and spends five minutes sliding knives, firearms, and other assorted weapons into hiding places all over his person. Once he’s satisfied he heads back out, locking the door behind himself as he goes. 

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Shiro says with a sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”

“There is no danger,” Acxa promises again, and reaches out to touch his shoulder. And, just like last night, he’s suddenly no longer in a seedy motel parking lot in Garrison, but rather on a dirt road in the middle of endless fields in Oriande.

The difference between last night and this morning is stark. The cornfields are completely gone now, and the shredded vegetation from last night has all been cleaned up and removed. The fields are full of young wheat now, not yet full grown and swaying gently in a non-existent breeze. A sunny, rustic sun shines with surprisingly warm, cheerful light down on them, and the dirt road looks fresh and well maintained. Most importantly, the oppressive feeling of sheer malevolence is gone, and the whole of Oriande feels new and clean and picturesque.

It’s better. Still disorienting. But better.

“Master,” Acxa intones, from Shiro’s right side. “He is here.”

_ “So I can see,”  _ the ever-present voice from everywhere says.

Before Shiro can so much as demand the crossroads take a form, Lotor steps out of thin air a few paces down the road. He still looks too thin, weaker and exhausted, but he isn’t the wretched, emaciated, manic thing Shiro had fought last night. 

Shiro finds that a little curious. Surely the crossroads can take whatever form they like, up to and including making themselves look as strong as possible? Lotor had certainly not hesitated to play with his appearance for Shiro’s first ‘deal,’ adjusting his features subtly as he saw fit to support whatever verbal attack angle he chose to take. 

Then again, this form is merely a representation of the anima mundi as a whole. And the anima mundi had  _ not  _ been doing well last night at all.

As if to support his thoughts, the remaining crossroads ghosts appear alongside their master. Zethrid, Ezor and Narti bracket the avatar of the crossroads carefully, keeping a sharp watch over him, as if waiting for him to collapse. They seem much more attentive to their master now than they had been before...but then again, it had sounded last night like they’d been terrified of their master while he was under the possession of whatever the shade had been. If Acxa’s story was right, before that creature, he’d  _ earned  _ the loyalty of each and every one of them.

“Thank you for bringing him, Acxa,” Lotor says, with a polite nod to her. His voice is back to its previous cultured tone, as though he spoke many different languages, and he uses the polite formality of high nobility. The sinister, predatory edge he’d had before is gone. 

Despite himself, Shiro relaxes a little. Not enough to completely drop his guard, but enough to at least not suspect a trap. 

Lotor seems to know exactly what’s going on in his head. Not enough to really  _ read  _ it, in a literal sense, but certainly enough to get a read on  _ him.  _ “Thank you for coming, Shirogane,” he says courteously. “I hope this will not take much of your time. I believe  _ this  _ is the form you were previously used to interacting with?” He gestures absently at himself.

Shiro blinks. “Um. Yes.”

“Good,” Lotor says, taking a few steps closer, “Because I haven’t the strength at the moment to invent a new one, and my memory for the past few centuries is hazy. I doubt I can remember all the forms I’ve taken for each debtor right now.”

His entourage immediately draws closer, obvious worry on their faces. He sighs and makes a shooing motion at them with one of his hands. “Now, now, none of that,” he says. “I assure you, I am fine enough for this. There is no need to hover.”

The crossroads ghosts exchange glances of obvious disbelief, but take a single step back from their master. Whatever Lotor had brought Shiro here for, it’s clear they don’t think he’s ready for it just yet.

Shiro frowns. “Why would you blatantly admit to a major weakness in front of me?” he asks, suspicious.

Lotor gives him a blunt look. The thousands of miles of empty midnight roads are there, like before, but they move sluggishly. “You’ve seen me at my worst, Shirogane,” he says. “And yet despite that, I am told you  _ still  _ championed in my defense against your former colleague. At this point, I have very little to fear from you, unless you intend to play a  _ very  _ long game. And frankly, no matter how I play out the various scenarios, I simply see no benefit to you in such an endeavor.”

“No game,” Shiro admits. “I just want to be done with you.”

“Yes,” Lotor sighs. “That seems to be the general consensus.” He sits down in midair, despite having no visible chair to speak of, and settles his arms delicately on invisible armrests. With his regal posture, it makes him look like he’s sitting on a throne, even if Shiro can’t see it. His ghosts gather about him like an honor guard, except Acxa, who still stands at Shiro’s side like a representative. 

Shiro raises an eyebrow at Lotor’s tone. “You don’t seem happy about that.”

“Would you be?” Lotor asks. “I’ve voided every single transaction that... _ thing  _ created in my place. Payments have been returned where possible, and owed debts are now null. It has gutted quite a lot of my strength to do so. And yet even so, I have a great deal of work ahead of me.” 

He raises one arm and gestures absently at the wheat fields on either side. “Thousands of years of reputation, now completely tarnished in just a few bare centuries. People will fear coming to me for some time now, afraid of cruel bargains.”

“You can’t blame them for that,” Shiro says. “Even if it wasn’t you. They have no way to know you were possessed, or that you’re safe again.” Relatively speaking, anyway. If Slav’s accounts were true, even  _ before  _ the change five hundred years ago, the bargains had still been hard. This wasn’t a place you came to lightly.

“True enough,” Lotor agrees. “Still, I will only see the truly desperate, for a time. I have a great deal of rebuilding to do.” He glances mournfully in the direction of the young wheat fields, only just starting to grow. “What a waste.”

To his surprise, Shiro actually finds himself empathizing with the anima mundi. Just a little. He understands what it’s like, to have to fight so hard against a preconceived reputation. Most cryptids he met didn’t know anything about him as an individual, but they knew enough horror stories about the Shirogane clan to judge him on that alone. The uphill battle Lotor will be facing will be a lot steeper, and a lot harder. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, and finds he really means it.

Lotor smiles. It’s not as sinister as it was before, when that  _ thing  _ was buried in him, but it is still a smile that speaks of knowing many secrets. “I think you actually mean that,” he says after a moment. “And the sentiment is appreciated. If nothing else, this will give me an opportunity to begin a new era of prosperity. I certainly look forward to the challenge.”

Shiro has no idea what to say to that, so he doesn’t.

“And now,” Lotor says, “To business. There is the matter of  _ our  _ bargain.”

Shiro’s heart thuds heavily in his chest, and he’s immediately wary. “I never bargained with you,” he protests. “And I don’t want to.”

Lotor shakes his head. “I am aware of that,” he says. “However, you have already paid a significant price to the crossroads—freeing me from that corrupting presence. Which, incidentally, I am extremely grateful for.” He gives a nod of acknowledgement to Shiro. “I have yet to grant a service for that price. Thus, I asked Acxa to bring you here for negotiation.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Shiro says, a little too insistently to be mistaken as anything but panic. He definitely doesn’t want to be here. He wants to abort,  _ now.  _

But Acxa places a hand on his shoulder and says, “It will be fine. I will be here to supervise.”

Last night, a declaration like that would have immediately caused Lotor to order his death, and Acxa’s torment. Now, the anima mundi merely smiles slyly, closing his eyes with fond amusement. “Acxa always was one of my most devoted servants,” he says. “And she never  _ was  _ shy about rewording my offers for the benefit of the debtor. If I did have a poor intent for you, Shirogane, I assure you she would find it.”

Acxa bows slightly, accepting the praise stoically. 

Shiro frowns. “I really don’t want anything,” he says. “I didn’t free you to  _ get  _ something, I did it because it had to be done. And I don’t want to be tied up in any crossroads deals.”

“It is for that same reason I must insist we close negotiations,” Lotor says. And at Shiro’s confused, skeptical look, he explains, “There is balance, in this... _ profession,  _ I suppose you’d call it. Even give, even take. People have need of my services. I aid them in exchange for a payment or task. Those things paid to me are reinvested into the world. The world grows. People grow. And when they need me, I am here to do it again.” 

Shiro’s frown grows deeper. That makes sense, in a strange way. Lotor is the anima mundi...the soul of the world. He knows instinctively that Lotor’s continued existence is necessary for the continued existence of the world. But he hadn’t really understood  _ how,  _ until now.

“For hundreds of years now, that balance has suffered. Through that... _ thing... _ I have taken more than I have given, and it has been invested not into me, or into the world, but...elsewhere.” He waves his hands in an absent gesture, indicating someplace far away. “If such a thing continues, things become... _ dire... _ for the world as we know it. Already, when I peer into the world through my servants, I see signs of it cracking. Too much more, and it will break.”

The world  _ cracking?  _ What did that mean? But Shiro is afraid to ask. Besides fearing the answer, he doesn’t know what the price for that information would even  _ be.  _ What does it cost, for a cosmic force to share the secrets of their existence?

Lotor regards him calmly as he finishes. “The price you have already paid cannot be undone. Therefore, I  _ must  _ grant a service of equal measure, to try and reforge some semblance of balance. I am not strong, yet...that will take many years, and many bargains. But I will grant what I can. So ask.” 

And he settles back in his unseen throne, hands steepled before himself, and waits.

Shiro stares for a long moment. Put in that context, Shiro supposes it makes sense. He glances uncertainty at Acxa, wondering if this is a trap of some kind. But she only nods once, and says, “You can suggest anything you like. Until I formalize it, and the two of you shake on it, nothing is set in stone.”

That’s a little less...final, then. Shiro considers, for a moment. “Pidge,” Shiro says after a moment. “Is her bargain really absolved?” 

Lotor actually  _ shudders,  _ looking away for a moment into the wheat. “Yes,” he says bluntly. “Your appeal certainly was...successful. I will grant you that.” He looks back to Shiro. “Even if it hadn’t been, her deal would have been absolved when I freed all parties from any deal that  _ thing  _ orchestrated. Katie Holt owes nothing to me.”

That’s a relief, at least. “Alright,” Shiro says. “ _ Do  _ you have any information on her family’s whereabouts?”

Lotor shivers again, but shakes his head regretfully. “I do not, beyond what that creature granted through me the first time.” He sighs. “I feel as though...I  _ knew,  _ at one point. But perhaps it was that thing, instead, and I only have distant memories of it.” He shakes his head. “Regardless, I cannot grant what I do not have.”

“It’s fine.” It had been a long shot, anyway. Acxa had forced the appeal last night by challenging Lotor on that information. If he didn’t have it last night, Shiro doubts he’d have it this morning. 

His thoughts go back to his first discussion with Lotor, when the shade had still been controlling him, unbeknownst to anyone. God help him, Shiro had  _ almost  _ been close enough to accepting that deal, even if it came at the price of multiple tasks for the crossroads. Maybe he can get it now.

“What about information about Galra?”

Lotor’s eyes flash angrily. For a moment, he looks  _ almost  _ as frightening as he had last night, but without the aura of malevolence that came from the creature. “Too high a service,” he says, after a long moment, shaking his head. “Unless you wish to place a second bargain? I can assure you,  _ my  _ price will be far more reasonable than whatever that creature offered you, and it will be the real truth.”

His thousand-mile eyes gleam with hunger, and he watches Shiro intently, leaning forward just a bit in his throne. Despite himself, Shiro shivers a little under that watchful gaze. He’s suddenly,  _ sharply  _ aware that although that cruel, vile presence that had caused so much hardship was gone, Lotor  _ is  _ still a cosmic force of nature—and by his own admission, a weak, starving one. He might take a mortal form for Shiro’s ease, and he might speak with all the air and sophistication of an experienced diplomat. But he is a creature that works at a much higher level than Shiro can comprehend, and has his own agenda to attend to, and he is most certainly  _ not  _ Shiro’s friend, or even his ally.

The bargains might be fairer, now, but the old adage is still true: don’t go to the crossroads. You don’t know what you’ll pay there. He doesn’t know where Lotor stands, or how this being would use him, and he can’t give him the opportunity to try. 

“No,” Shiro says, very firmly. “I’ll find it out on my own.”

“A pity,” Lotor says, with only a small glimmer of disappointment in his thousand-mile eyes. He settles back in his invisible throne, once more steepling his fingers before himself. “Another service, then.”

Shiro considers. He thinks to just before when Acxa had shown up, and the agonizing back and forth he’s had with himself since last night. Since even before that. And he wonders, unexpectedly, if this is the solution.

“What about my  _ original  _ deal? The one I came to you about before?”

Lotor smiles, his expression full of wry amusement. “The one you never intended to really make?” 

“Uh...”

The anima mundi actually laughs at that. It’s a surprisingly pleasant noise, for a cosmic force. “Don’t worry. Neither myself nor that creature were aware you came to us under the pretense of a false bargain at the time. Acxa told me after.” He nods to the crossroads ghost still at Shiro’s side. “I must say, however, that I am impressed with your...initiative. I have existed for longer than you can comprehend, and yet mortals  _ still  _ continue to surprise me.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Shiro says, a little relieved that the avatar of the crossroads isn’t outright smiting him on the spot for his deception. Not that Lotor  _ could,  _ but it’s hard to think otherwise with a cosmic force literally staring you down. 

“You should,” Lotor says generously. “Now then. Refresh my memory on the terms of your request. I am afraid it is a bit cloudy.”

“Ellen Sanda,” Shiro says. “I need a solution to her being in Garrison City.”

“Ah, yes,” Lotor drawls. “The one who had the audacity to unload an entire firearm’s worth of ammunition into this form’s face, and then demand my execution.” He gives Shiro a pointed look. “And what, exactly, would you have me do to her?”

That has a touch of bloodthirstiness to it, and Shiro doesn’t want to know what a grudge-bearing crossroads avatar might do of his own volition, so Shiro puts his foot down immediately. “No killing or harming her,” he says. “I need a way for her to leave the country, without harming my friends, and without alerting the rest of the Covenant to our whereabouts. Is that something you can do, for the price I paid?”

Lotor studies him for a long, silent moment, as though considering. “I can,” he said at last. “To a degree. To do so would require manipulating her memories. By some definitions, this would be considered ‘harm,’ so you would need to agree this does not break your stipulation.”

Shiro frowns. “Manipulate how?”

Lotor gestures to the air. “She is here on a mission to interrogate and kill Katie Holt. I would create the impression that she has succeeded, and that her target confirmed she acted independently to threaten the Covenant, and no active threats still exist. All other memories gained while in Garrison City would be erased and replaced with mundane ones. Unimpressive ones. Things the Covenant has no need to bother with.” He meets Shiro’s eyes. “Would that be acceptable, under your terms?”

It’s a perfect solution. Everyone is protected, and nobody dies on either side. The Covenant will have no reason to investigate, if Sanda goes home alive in one piece, with nothing of note to report. Pidge will never be chased again, if Sanda is under the impression she’s dead. Keith’s, Lance’s, and Hunk’s faces will be unknown again, and none of them will be traceable back to Allura. Garrison’s cryptid population won’t be at risk...in fact, they’ll be even safer than before, since Sanda will report nothing of interest. If the Covenant were ever to plan a purge, there are other cities they’d investigate first. 

It’s a perfect solution on a silver platter. But…

“She won’t remember the fight against you either, then,” Shiro says slowly, with dawning comprehension. 

“No,” Lotor agrees. “Everything will be taken. There’s no way to make it work otherwise.”

Which means Sanda’s  _ one  _ good interaction with the cryptid community will be lost, too. The uncomfortable questions it had brought up, her conversations with Shiro, the slim but still there  _ chance  _ that she might be able to see the ones she hunted as  _ people  _ and not  _ monsters... _ it would all be gone, too. Any chance she might take that back to the others still in the Covenant, any chance he might have to ever get a message to his old friends...it would all disappear. 

He’d never even dared to give himself hope that it might be a possibility, for others to be like him, to see the light. The first, tantalizing chance it could be a  _ reality  _ had been dangled in front of him just last night. And already he’s going to lose it.

But he has to take this deal. He’s burned himself out trying to find a solution, and there just  _ isn’t  _ one. His first duty is to Garrison City, now. To hundreds of cryptids in the city that he doesn’t even know, but who would inevitably suffer if he doesn’t. To Keith, Lance, Hunk, and now Pidge, who trust him to have their backs and make the right decisions. To Allura, whom he’d sworn to years ago to do  _ everything  _ he could to understand and protect her people. 

The mere  _ chance  _ that a few people he’d once known and cared for might, only  _ maybe,  _ see things the same way as him wasn’t enough to risk turning down Lotor’s offer. It would be selfish of him to even consider otherwise. 

But even so, it hurts so bad to know that. It wasn’t fair. He’d already  _ paid  _ the price for this deal; the awful decision should have already been taken out of his hands. It shouldn’t be so hard to accept a gift already paid for. 

Lotor watches him quietly, with a surprising amount of understanding in his expression. “I am sorry,” the anima mundi says softly, after a long moment. “No one ever comes to me who isn’t desperate in some way. That is...a different sort of heavy price altogether, and not one I can change.”

But maybe he could change the deal. Maybe he could ask Lotor to slip something in Sanda’s head, make her understand, make her…

...but that wouldn’t really be  _ Sanda  _ then, would it? It already feels sickening enough, to reach inside her head and mess around with her perceptions. To remove her memories of the incident would be a necessary evil, to protect hundreds, if not thousands of people. To manipulate who she  _ was  _ would be a disgusting violation. Anything she did after that wouldn’t be a choice willingly made because she wanted to; it would be something she was forced to do, unwittingly or not. And that would make Shiro no different than the puppetmaster that had kept Lotor on strings for five hundred years.

No. There’s nothing he can do for her, or for his old friends and family across the sea. All he can do is hope that one day, somehow, they see the light like he did, and do what they can to make things right. 

But he isn’t responsible for them. He never was. And at the end of the day, as much as he’d  _ like  _ for his old life to merge smoothly with his new one and create an idyllic sort of universe, he knows he can’t make it happen. 

And he knows where he’s truly needed.

“Those terms sound agreeable,” Shiro says quietly. 

“Excellent,” Lotor says, standing from his invisible throne. “Acxa?”

The crossroads ghost steps forward immediately, a faint golden sheen emitting from her eyes and skin as she does. “The deal has been set at the removal of Ellen Sanda from the United States, and the prevention of the Covenant of St George from discovering the reason for her return. This service will be performed via the removal of Ellen Sanda’s memories of all significant non-human parties, and the manipulation of memory to confirm the death of Katie Holt. The price has previously been paid in the form of the purification of the anima mundi, and no further price will be demanded of the bargainer, Takashi Shirogane. Are both parties in agreement?”

“Yes,” Lotor says, extending his hand.

Shiro hesitates. But nothing in the agreement had sounded fishy in any way, and Acxa gives him an encouraging nod. “I agree.”

“Shake his hand, then,” Acxa says. “It completes the deal.”

Right. She had said something about that last time. Shiro hesitates only a second longer, before reaching out with his right hand to take Lotor’s own. Lotor clasps his fingers firmly, and despite his form technically being unreal and entirely for Shiro’s own benefit, he has a shockingly strong grip.

Something like static electricity races up Shiro’s arm. It doesn’t hurt, but it is startling, and he tries to pull his hand away on reflex. Lotor doesn’t let him, keeping his hand firmly gripped in his own, and his eyes flash brilliant gold. 

Then he finally lets go, and as Shiro pulls his arm back with surprise, flexing his fingers automatically, the anima mundi smiles. “Excellent,” he says. “The compact is sealed. When Acxa returns you to the world, your bargain will take effect. Congratulations, Shirogane—you’re a virtual unknown again.”

Shiro swallows. That’s his problem taken care of, and yet somehow he feels dirty anyway. He rubs his fingers against his shirt, as though wiping it off. “Thanks.”

“That concludes our business,” Lotor says. “But do come back again some time, Shirogane. I am always ready to make a deal.” 

He settles back into his invisible throne again, and it takes Shiro a moment to realize that despite his perfect posture and noble air, he’s actually a little paler than before. Whatever he’d just done had taken a lot out of him. His ghosts hover protectively nearby, and Zethrid gives Shiro a warning look, as if telling him under no uncertain terms that if he tries to deal again while their master is still recovering, she will have something to say about it. And ‘say’ will probably include a brutal punch to the face. 

Fortunately for all of them, Shiro has no intention of taking Lotor up on that offer. “No thanks. I’m glad I could help you out with your balance issue, but crossroads deals aren’t for me.”

“A pity,” Lotor says. “Acxa will see you out, then. Ah! But one last thing. A bit of...advice.”

“At what cost?” Shiro asks, immediately wary.

“Free of charge,” Lotor says, smiling a too-knowing smile. 

“Nothing is free of charge with you,” Shiro says pointedly. “That’s literally the reason you brought me here. You said it yourself...balance.”

“Very well,” Lotor says, steepling his fingers. “Let us say that I am placing a bet in my best interests. A...future investment, if you will. By placing information in your hands, it will benefit me greatly in the future.”

Shiro hesitates. He glances at Acxa, but she only shrugs, and gives him a nod. “If my master willingly gives you information before demanding a payment, he can’t charge you for it after the fact,” she tells him. “It should be safe.”

That isn’t the biggest comfort, if Acxa seems just as perplexed by this development as he is, but he warily accepts her reassurance. “Alright. Let’s hear it, then.”

Lotor seems to pause for a long moment, considering his words carefully, staring upwards at the sky and nowhere near Shiro. “The one who did this to me,” he finally says delicately, “is...not happy with what you did. One wonders why a being of my caliber would take such a...vested interest...in a mere mortal such as yourself. There is a strong  _ possibility _ —but not a  _ finite truth— _ that she will come for you.” 

Shiro can feel the blood drain from his face.  _ She will come for you.  _ There’s only been one ‘she’ who has been causing him so much trouble recently...the strange mistress all of the Galra servants spoke of. 

He has a feeling Lotor’s dropped him a very large, very deliberate clue, as much within the bounds of his rules as he can. Potentials and truths that weren’t finite  _ weren’t  _ bargainable information, according to last night, but they  _ could  _ serve as warnings. The same with deliberate speculations spoken out loud. 

And if he was understanding those hints correctly...the ‘mistress’ was somehow linked to that strange shade that had seized control of Lotor. That intruder, whoever it was, had screamed at him about capturing the anima mundi. If she had been controlling the crossroads somehow, and she wanted him dead after his other interferences...then she may well have pointed the biggest cannon she had in his direction, the crossroads themselves. It would certainly explain why Lotor had been so fixated on him, while under the shade’s control, and why he had deliberately sent Pidge to make contact with him. 

It’s a terrifying warning, if Shiro is understanding Lotor correctly. The thought that he could be facing down someone so powerful they could harness a spirit of the world to their control is not good news. How could Shiro possibly fight someone strong and clever enough to restrain a cosmic force like  _ Lotor?  _

But then again, Lotor, for all his near-infinite power, also had to operate within a set parameter of rules. And, despite all that power, Shiro had  _ still  _ managed to defeat him, with the help of his friends. 

Maybe they do have a chance, still. And even a little bit of a warning might save their lives. 

“That’s some interesting advice,” Shiro says neutrally, after a long moment. He doesn’t say thank you. It would be too much like acknowledging a gift had been given.

Lotor stops staring at the sky, and gives him another one of those too-knowing smiles. “Isn’t it?” he observes, as easily as if he was commenting on the weather. 

“Mm.”

“I hope you kill her,” Lotor says, fondly, with relish. His grudge-bearing bloodthirstiness from earlier is back, and clearly, it doesn’t pay to anger a long-lived cosmic force like the soul of the world. “But if you don’t...I think you would be an excellent guide spirit.”

Shiro makes a face at that. “Thanks, but no. I’m not sticking around as a ghost. Ever.”

“Perhaps,” Lotor concedes. “Acxa...return the man to his home. Goodbye, Shirogane.”

Acxa places a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, and once more he’s in front of his motel door, with her still beside him. A quick glance at the sun suggests almost no time at all has passed since he locked his door. 

“Thank you again for your help,” Acxa says. 

“You’ve said that more than enough,” Shiro answers. “You really don’t need to keep saying it.”

“It bears repeating,” Acxa says. “That was the first  _ honest  _ bargain I’ve been able to arbitrate in centuries. It felt...right. And I’ve never seen my master so freely give information like that. Certainly not since he changed.” 

Shiro shrugs. “I get the feeling he has a bit of a grudge against whoever messed with him,” he says bluntly. “A ‘future investment’...he’s just hoping I’ll kill off whoever this is without him having to own me to do it. He as much as said so.” 

Not that he particularly minds, in this case. Lotor may have refused to give him any concrete information about Galra. But if the mysterious mistress had been the one to do this to him, and she works with Galra, then  _ whatever  _ ‘Galra’ is must be far more dangerous than even he had realized. If Lotor’s hint makes him a little more prepared...well, then they both benefit, and that’s a kind of balance in its own way, too.

“Regardless.” Acxa says, “You’ve done a far greater deed than you probably realize. Which is why I’ll give you some advice as well. Don’t call again.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to work for him? Isn’t he better?”

“I work for the people who call the crossroads,” Acxa says. “If they are truly desperate enough to petition him even after I’ve given them warnings, then I make sure their deal is as fair as is possible. But you aren’t truly desperate. And you  _ are  _ someone with a great deal of influence. It would be better if you were not indebted to a larger force, I think.”

“Duly noted,” Shiro says slowly. 

Acxa nods. “Your bargain has been taking effect,” she says. “Good luck, Shirogane.” And just like that, she vanishes into nothing, leaving him alone on his temporary doorstep. 

Shiro takes a deep breath, and lets himself back into his motel room. He’s not exactly sure how to confirm if Lotor’s service has been completed, and even if it has, it’s better to stay indoors until Sanda is truly gone. It would be just his luck if she’d forgotten him, only to catch a glimpse of him on the street on her way to the airport. 

He does know at least one person who can keep an eye out for confirmation though. So he texts Pidge as soon as he’s inside.  _ Can you do that thing you did before? Hacking the airport?  _

The answer comes back almost immediately.  _ Yeah, obviously. Why?  _

_ Keep an eye out for Sanda. And the alias she used. For the next couple hours. _

_ What did you do?  _ Pidge texts back. 

_ I’ll explain if it works. Just keep an eye out.  _

_ Will do.  _

It doesn’t take long to get results. He’s carefully going through all of his gear, cleaning firearms and sharpening knives, when Pidge calls him an hour later. He puts down his oilcloth and picks up the phone, answering, “Yeah?”

_ “What did you do?”  _ Pidge begins the conversation without preamble. In the background, he can hear several other voices—Lance and Hunk, he thinks—talking amongst themselves incredulously. 

“What do you mean?” Shiro asks, cautious.

_ “I mean I have a live feed of the security cameras in Garrison’s airport, of Sanda heading for a loading gate right now,”  _ Pidge answers.  _ “And confirmation of a boarding pass to JFK International for one Elaine Stanton, and another ticket purchased for London. She’s  _ leaving.  _ Our twenty four hours aren’t even up and she’s  _ leaving.  _ What did you  _ do?” 

Shiro closes his eyes. After a moment, he says softly, “Lotor owed me one.” And he sure as hell worked  _ fast.  _

There’s a strangled noise on the other end of the line.  _ “You made a deal?” _ Pidge yelps, incredulous.  _ “After all those lectures you gave me about  _ not _ doing that?”  _

“I didn’t make a deal. It’s a long story, and I don’t want to tell it over the phone.” He sighs. “Text me when the plane departs and she’s  _ definitely  _ gone. Then I’ll finally feel comfortable heading back to the penthouse, and I’ll explain everything.”

_ “You’d better,”  _ Pidge says, sullenly.  _ “Fine. I’ll keep tabs on her and let you know.”  _

“Thank you.”

Shiro hangs up, and stares across at the wall for a long time, his weapons chores forgotten. It had worked. Lotor had really come through, and plucked all that information out of Sanda’s head. She never would have left with an ultimatum like the one she gave last night still in effect. The only reason she would depart is if she had finished her mission and found no other reason to stay. 

It was over. Just like that, it was over. 

But even knowing that, it gives him no relief. Lotor had come through, just like he’d bargained for. But even knowing that, it was terrifying, to think about that level of power in the hands of anyone. Lotor couldn’t use it on his own, but the fact that Shiro had essentially given him permission to reach in and manipulate somebody’s mind…

It’s scary. And it’s a little sick. And he never wants anything to do with that ever again. 

“I’m sorry, Sanda,” he murmurs under his breath. “I thought you might have had a chance. If there was any other way...but I have people to protect. I think, in a way, you’d understand that.” 

It’s the best he can hope for.


	24. Vestiarium sapiens: Part Nine

“Logic and loss aren’t always great friends. Sometimes we mourn for the things that hurt us. Sometimes, that’s okay.”   
—Alex Price,  _ Pocket Apocalypse  _

**_The Altea penthouse, after a long couple of days_ **

A little over two hours later, Shiro arrives at Allura’s penthouse for the first time in several days. 

He’d taken a quick detour back to his apartment to drop off his emergency gear, change into fresh clothes, and check for signs of tampering. Thankfully, it didn’t look like Sanda had ever found the place. 

He also takes a quick detour to the local bakery and grocery store, and leaves with armfuls of cheese and cake. Allura’s security is frankly impressed with the hefty plastic bags he carts in under both arms, and searches them dutifully, giving him strange looks. He ignores them. 

It’s not his standard donut hole offering to the Aeslin mice. But this time around, they deserve a hell of a lot more.

Everyone greets him in the main foyer, the moment the elevator doors part. None greet him so loudly as the mice, especially his own personal congregation, who cheer simultaneously as he steps through the door. “HAIL! HAIL THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN OF THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS! HAIL!”

“Thanks, guys,” he says, with a nod of acknowledgement to the mice. That alone sends them into another round of religious ecstasy, over acknowledgement from their high priest after days of unexpected departure.

“Shiro!” Allura says over the cheers of the mice, delighted. “I am so glad to see you back, and safe. After you left us that afternoon and couldn’t return, I was extremely concerned.”

“It’s good to be back,” Shiro says. “And thanks for getting all those rare supplies last minute yesterday. They were a lifesaver.”

“Of course,” Allura says. “I only wish I could have helped more in this venture. I dislike having to hide away in a tower when an enemy roams my city.”

“You did enough,” Shiro assures her. “There’s not much you could have done against Sanda, and it would have put more people at risk if she had found you.” Allura doesn’t look happy about it, but she nods in grudging agreement. 

“Are you hungry?” Coran asks. “It’s been a few hours since lunch. Although, it looks like you have quite a bit of food on you…” He raises an eyebrow at the plastic bags weighing down Shiro’s arms. 

“This isn’t for me,” Shiro says, hefting the bags once. “I could go for some lunch though, if you don’t mind, Coran. I’ve been a little...preoccupied.” 

“Of course! I’ll put something together for you at once.”

“I can help,” Hunk adds, following after Coran. More likely than not, he was also hoping to snag a snack for himself.

“Now that you’re here, are we gonna get answers?” Pidge asks, crossing her arms. “Because I  _ really  _ want to know what the heck happened.” Lance and Allura nod in agreement. 

“I will in a minute,” Shiro says. “How about I meet you guys in the living room? I’ve got to dole this out to the mice first.”

“HAIL! HAIL THE DISTRIBUTION OF OFFERINGS!”

“That,” Shiro says, with another nod to the mice. “It might take a little bit.”

Pidge looks like she wants to protest, but Allura seems to pick up that he has something else to discuss with her Aeslin colony as well. She catches Pidge by the shoulder, and leads her away, subtly sweeping out one of her white wings to block the view back to Shiro. As they walk away, Allura says, “We will meet you there in a bit, Shiro. Pidge—with all the difficulties of the past few days, we haven’t had a chance to really talk. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” 

Lance, with a shrug at Shiro, turns around and follows after them. “See you in a bit!”

With the extra floorspace clear, more Aeslin mice seem to appear out of nowhere, filling the hardwood floor and any available furniture space in the corner. They leave a respectful ring around Shiro as they swarm forward, and Shiro’s little high priest scurries to the front of the pack and looks up at him with wide-eyed adoration.

“Alright, guys,” Shiro says, crouching down on one knee and setting the plastic bags on the ground. “This is for the whole colony, but with a special appreciation for any of you that follow me specifically.” He starts unpacking the plastic bags, setting out two round layer cakes and a wide assortment of cheeses. 

His personal high priest watches him reveal more and more foods with an expression of sheer wonder, which is mimicked by the entire rest of the cheering congregation. “To be blessed with such a divine bounty is a great honor, High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness,” it squeaks, clutching its paws together in religious fervor. “What have we done to serve You so, to receive such a plentiful Offering? There is no Feast devoted to you on this day.” 

Shiro considers his answer for a moment, because anything he says will be set in stone for the rest of his life—and probably long past it, the way Aeslin tradition carries their deities and holy servants forward. Finally, he says, “You had faith in me. Even when I didn’t have faith in myself. And last night, that saved my life, and helped me exorcise a monster. So I think you’ve earned a little extra, as a thank you.”

The mice make several little soft, gasping motions, and Shiro’s personal high priest bows his head in acknowledgement. “To carry the Faith of a High Priest is a privilege above all else,” the little mouse squeaks. “To have our Faith acknowledged by the High Priest itself is the highest of honors. Truly, on this day we are Blessed!”

The crowd of mice erupts into several rounds of  _ “Hails!”  _ and  _ “Sing praises!”  _ in sheer religious delight. Several of them fall to chanting catechisms Shiro recognizes as belonging to himself—including, to his amusement, the exact same one he’d used last night for his exorcism.

“Let it be Known that this day forward is henceforth the Feast of Returned Faith of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness!” the little high priest adds, throwing his paws skyward. “For on this day the High Priest did return from His sojourn away from the Light of the Lion Goddess, and His Faith was Restored!” At this, the surrounding mice dissolve into sheer religious jubilation, dancing and shouting excitedly. 

_ Oh, no. _ He might have shot himself in the foot with this one. “Does that mean you’re going to expect this much food every year on this day, now?” Shiro asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It is So, High Priest!” his head priest confirms, with another bow. “So that we may Feast in your Name, and commemorate the day you bestowed Us with such honor, and found your way Home!”

_ Home.  _ It’s almost funny, how he can wonder about what that means, and what  _ he  _ means, and yet a hundred sentient mice can instantly remind him of it. 

Despite the inevitable hit his wallet will take around this time of year from now on, Shiro can’t help but smile. “Well, what the hell,” he says. “I wouldn’t be alive next year without your help last night, so I guess you deserve it.”

_ “Hail!”  _ the mice agree.  _ “Hail the wisdom of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness!”  _

“Might we hear the Story of your Faith?” His head priest asks. “So that we might commemorate your deeds in catechisms, and understand how we carried your Faith, and better devote ourselves to doing so Forevermore?”

A hush immediately falls over the crowd. A hundred dark, oil-drop eyes fixate on him with rapt attention, waiting to commit the story to their perfect memories.

“Tell you what,” Shiro compromises. “I need to speak with Allura and the others now, like I promised them. But I’ll be sure to meet with some of you before I leave to tell you my part of what happened, last night. For now, go enjoy your feast. Fair?”

_ “HAIL!”  _ the mice agree. As one, they swarm the foods settled out on the floor, lifting the packages with stunning coordination, dancing and singing praises. They scurry off in the direction of one of their many different wall networks, and in no time at all, every rodent has disappeared.

Shiro shakes his head, but in amusement more than anything else. The mice can be an exasperating handful sometimes, but other times...other times, they can be downright cute. 

The others are all waiting for him in the living room—minus Keith, anyway, who will still be asleep for another five hours at the bare minimum. Pidge and Hunk are both bent over a laptop in one corner, chatting in technobabble, while Allura and Lance look on in perplexed amusement. Coran has a tray with sandwiches and sliced fruit, which he sets in the middle of the coffee table for everyone to have access to. He disappears and returns with another tray of tea and coffee, and sets that down as well.

Shiro gratefully takes a sandwich, a mug of coffee, and a seat. “Thanks, Coran,” he says, nodding to the older gentleman. “I’ve been a little too preoccupied for food, recently.”

Hunk shakes his head in disgust, looking up. “You have  _ got  _ to stop doing that,” he says. “Food is  _ life.  _ Literally.”

“I was a little busy yesterday,” Shiro defends. “What with saving the world, and all.”

“So was I, but I still managed to get dinner!” Hunk says, crossing his arms.

“He has you there,” Lance agrees with a grin. Shiro grumbles into his coffee. 

“The way I heard it, you were  _ supposed  _ to be busy today too,” Pidge points out, giving him a look. “And yet  _ this  _ happened.” She turns her laptop screen around, displaying footage of Sanda at the airport on repeat as she goes through security and reaches her gate. “So what  _ happened,  _ if you didn’t make a deal?”

“I didn’t,” Shiro says. “It’s like I said. Lotor owed me one for the exorcism I did last night.” He explains in detail his visit from Acxa this morning, and his return to Oriande, as he finishes off his sandwich and helps himself to some of the sliced fruit. 

“So that’s it?” Allura asks, after a long moment. “After all our difficulties, after stirring up the community to protect itself, her memory is just...gone?”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” Shiro says. “It’s still a good thing we told everyone to go to ground for a bit. Lotor’s deal only removed what had already happened. If Sanda caught sight of someone in the community sticking their neck out while she was leaving, she still could have acted on it.” He sighs. “But yeah. It’s...it’s all over.”

Coran strokes his mustache. “I wouldn’t have taken the crossroads for playing fair, like that. He didn’t seem the sort.”

Shiro’s brows raise. “That’s right. You met him, too.” In all the insanity of last night, he’d nearly forgotten that Coran had been their decoy while they’d rushed to get set up for the final strike. “How did that go?”

“Oh, as well as can be expected,” Coran says lightly, with a wink. “I asked for guaranteed protection for miss Allura from all the dangers going on in Garrison. He offered me a very fancy-sounding deal that didn’t really have much to it at all. I let him try to talk me into it for a bit to buy you some time, before I declined.” 

His voice is jovial as always, but Shiro’s experienced the darkness of the crossroads, and the honeyed poison of the shade’s deals, enough to see the haunted look carefully hidden in Coran’s eyes. He can make light of it all he wants, but the shade-controlled Lotor was too clever at dealing to have been caught in an empty promise so quickly. He has a feeling it had taken Coran everything he had to resist saying ‘yes,’ however much he claims he’d led the crossroads on. 

He wonders what else Lotor offered, and what price he’d asked for. He decides a moment later it’s not really his place to ask, and leaves it be.

“Then it sounds like everyone’s all free of debt from the crossroads,” Lance sums up with a relieved sigh. “Which is good, because that place gave me the heebie-jeebies. I’m kinda glad I didn’t know about it when I was looking for my folks before.” Then he gives Pidge a stubborn look, and adds, “Isn’t that great,  _ Katie?”  _

She scowls at him. “Look, I get it already! You don’t have to keep harping on it. You’ve been doing it since last night!”

“Oooh, no. You don’t get out of this until you at  _ least  _ explain to Shiro,” Lance says, although thankfully his tone is less antagonistic and more obnoxious-older-sibling. “He risked his life for you a  _ bunch  _ of times, you at least have to come clean about that.”

She grumbles, but after a moment sighs, closing her laptop and staring at its surface. “Fine,” she mumbles, carefully not looking in Shiro’s direction. “Pidge Gunderson isn’t my real name. It’s just a false identity I’ve been using while hunting for my dad and brother. And for when I had a crazy Covenant lady chasing me.” She gives him a nervous, sly look out of the corner of her eyes, as if trying to subtly gauge his reaction.

“I already knew,” Shiro says mildly, as he pours himself more coffee.

Allura chuckles a little, and Hunk and Lance give him astounded looks. “You did?” Lance sputters.

“You did?” Pidge echoes, equally surprised. “How?” 

“For starters, the other night at Slav’s, the original deal you quoted was for Samuel and Matthew  _ Holt,”  _ Shiro says. “But also, I’ve used plenty of aliases myself. I know one when I hear one. They’re practical when you want to stay under the radar. But next time you might want to use a less...unique one, if you’re trying to blend in.” 

She looks a little sheepish. “It’s based on a nickname my brother gave me when we were younger. I figured it’d be like a code, if he was out there somewhere and heard people mentioning my name.”

“Fair enough,” Shiro concedes. “So, if you’re using an alias, I assume you don’t want us calling you Katie out in public?”

“Probably for the best,” she says. “I like Pidge, anyway. It reminds me of Matt.” Her face is despondent, for a moment, before she shakes her head. 

“But one thing I don’t understand,” Hunk says, scratching his head in confusion. “How come you even need an alias? I mean...I get it for gorgons.” He gestures at himself. “We always have some people living outside our communities, so we need forged driver’s licenses and legal documents and stuff. But don’t bogeymen have their own underground communities the Covenant  _ definitely  _ couldn’t trace you to by name?” 

“Literally, even?” Lance adds helpfully. “I mean, there’s a whole community living in the sewers, here. Pretty nice people, actually.”

If anything, Pidge looks even more sheepish at this line of questioning than over her name. “I...um...I’m a little different. I have a mailing address. To a house in the suburbs. Where my mom still lives. So if the Covenant caught me, I didn’t want them to have my real name and trace it to my house and kill my mom for being a cryptid sympathizer.”

“Sympathizer? Wait…” Lance gives Pidge a bewildered look. “Is your mom  _ human?”  _

“Um...yes?” Pidge says, a little hesitant. “And my dad’s a bogeyman.” 

Which did make a lot of sense, actually. Pidge’s complexion is definitely the gray pallor of a bogeyman, but not so dark she can’t pass for human in the right lighting and circumstances. And she certainly is short for a bogeyman, even a teenaged one. Shiro had wondered about her odd skin tone and height when she first found him at the park, but it wasn’t polite to ask. Human blood would certainly explain the differences.

Pidge hesitates again. “I’m sorry I didn’t come clean about it earlier, but I didn’t want it to change the way anybody thought about me. People can be...weird...about that kind of thing. I mean...well, you saw. With the crossroads ghosts.” She hesitates. “It...doesn’t change anything, does it?”

“Nah,” Hunk says immediately. “I saw the picture of your family on your phone already.”

“You  _ what?  _ How did you break my encryption?”

“I mean, y’know…”

“I doesn’t bother me either,” Lance says, scratching his head. “I was just surprised.” 

“I think it’s lovely to see cryptids and humans forming healthy families,” Allura says with a smile. “The world could certainly use more of it.” Coran nods in agreement.

“There’s nothing wrong with owning who you are,” Shiro says. “And I’m glad you’re okay with us knowing.” 

She looks around. “Is Keith going to be mad about it?”

“No,” Shiro says confidently. To this day, Keith still isn’t sure if he’s half human, or fully vampire; both him and his parents hailed from other parts of the country, so the Marmora Society had no records of either of them. Even if he was fully cryptid, he’d spent most of his life raised by humans, as a human, so Shiro doubts he’d start getting speciesist about crossbreeding. “He won’t mind at all. But you can ask him yourself when he wakes up.”

Pidge sighs in relief. “Okay. Well. Then that’s a  _ huge  _ weight off my chest.” 

“I’m glad,” Shiro says, settling back comfortably on the couch. “And I’m sorry I didn’t have the answers you were looking for when you first came to me. But I’m glad I could help you a little in some way.” 

“Yeah.” Pidge’s relieved grin grows even wider—a somewhat unsettling display on a sharp-toothed bogeyman. “Thanks for all your help. Really.”

“No problem. I’m not sure what your current financial situation is, but if you need help getting back home I’m happy to pay for transportation to wherever you and your mother live—”

“Are you kidding me?” Pidge gives him an incredulous look. “I’m not leaving  _ now!”  _

Shiro stares at her blankly. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Just look at how much  _ stuff  _ I’ve learned in just a couple days while I’ve been here!” Pidge says. She ticks them off on her many-jointed fingers as she lists them out loud. “I met  _ you,  _ and you really  _ have  _ met my brother. Even if you don’t know where he is now, and it wasn’t what the crossroads promised me, that’s still better than what I had. Because of you I met Allura, and she’s got whole  _ networks  _ of information digitally  _ and  _ through people that I can use. You guys both introduced me to Slav, and I didn’t even get a chance to ask him if he’s met my dad or brother yet. Even if he hasn’t, if my dad’s still out there somewhere, he’s  _ sure  _ to track him down. And you took out  _ the crossroads,  _ like two days after I introduced them as a problem.” 

She gives Shiro a firm, no-nonsense look as she drops her hands back onto her laptop. “You guys— _ especially  _ Shiro—make the impossible happen. So basically, I  _ have  _ to stay here. My best chances of getting information about my dad and Matt are here.” 

They stare at her with varying expressions of surprise for a long moment. Then Hunk says, “Well...she does kind of have you there. You  _ do  _ do impossible stuff. Like, all the time. Like stopping a werelion invasion.”

“Or a killer incubus,” Lance adds. 

“And many other things besides,” Allura agrees. 

Coran nods, stroking his mustache again. “If I were a betting man, I’d certainly put odds on Shiro. He gets results.”

Pidge grins. “So it’s settled. I’m staying here.”

Shiro stares around at them all incredulously, before returning his attention to Pidge. “But do you have a  _ plan?”  _ he stresses. “You have to be what—fifteen? Even by bogeyman standards you’re still a minor. You can’t rent a place. And what would your mother think? I’m sure she’s worried about you.”

Pidge opens her mouth to argue, but blanches at his final words. “I...um…”

Shiro’s expression grows darker. “Pidge. When you said you left home to look for your family...you  _ did  _ tell your mother, right?”

“Um...I left a note…”

Shiro groans and rubs his face with one hand, while Lance makes a harsh, almost literal bark of laughter. “Oh man! Your mother is gonna eat you  _ alive  _ when she finds out what you did.”

“You’re grounded for eternity,” Hunk agrees sagely. 

Pidge groans, hiding her face in her hands. “Well,” she says eventually, “I don’t have to tell her right  _ now.  _ I mean, what’s another couple of weeks? And I could find a place to stay here. Lance just said there’s a bogeyman community here, I could probably barter a room to stay in for some technical repairs—”

Lance, still chuckling to himself and wiping his eyes, says, “Or you could stay with Shiro.”

“What? Really?”

“Lance,” Shiro says with a sigh, “We  _ really  _ have to talk about you volunteering my apartment to new roommates. At least pretend to run it by me, first.”

“Sure,” Lance agrees, before putting up a conspiratory hand to hide his face, and stage-whispering to Shiro, “Hey, could Pidge stay with us?”

Well, that hadn’t been what he’d meant at  _ all.  _

“Could I?” Pidge asks brightly. “I wouldn’t be a problem at all, and I could definitely earn my keep. I can beef up your digital security and help with surveillance stuff, and I can help out with this whole helping people thing—I mean, I’ve never done it before, but hey, nothing can be harder than all the stuff we just dealt with—and—”

“Woah!” Shiro raises his hand, and Pidge immediately grinds to a halt, eyes wide and waiting expectantly. 

Could he?

Well, technically yes, he could. He’d deliberately made sure he had a spare guest bedroom when he got the new apartment, even with himself, Keith, Hunk and Lance in residence. It had been intended to be an emergency space for Allura or Coran to hide out, in the event her penthouse was ever compromised, but, well...he can work something out, if that ever does happen. 

And he knows his place is safe, and well defended, and that no one living there would ever hurt Pidge. She’s a sharp kid, but a fifteen year old girl living alone in a city is not a good combination, no matter the species. Bogeymen as a whole are fairly practical and not inherently malicious, outside of a few mean-spirited pranks—but there are creeps in every community, and Shiro can’t vouch for any of the individuals he knows as a safe guardian. 

Allura gives him a knowing look, barely hiding a smile. She already knows he’s lost. 

He sighs. “I’ll allow it,” he says. “But on  _ one  _ condition,” he adds, interrupting Pidge’s whoop.

“Anything! What is it?”

He gives her a firm look. “You have to  _ call your mother,”  _ he says insistently, “and get her permission to stay.”

She gives him a horrified look. “But—”

“No buts,” Shiro cuts her off. “I am absolutely  _ not  _ risking having the entire bogey community out for my blood over the kidnapping of a minor. You know how bogeymen gossip networks work, Pidge. Either your mother approves, or you’re going home.”

“I’m so dead,” Pidge moans, head in her hands. Lance snickers at her again, and Hunk gives her a sympathetic look.

“You can stay here for tonight, if you would like the chance to recover from your ordeal first,” Allura says. “But I am in agreement with Shiro. Your family really  _ should  _ know that you are okay, and what your next plans are.”

Pidge sighs. “I know,” she grumbles. “I’ll...I’ll do that, then. I promise I’ll call first thing in the morning.” 

“Good,” Shiro says. “But if your mother  _ is  _ okay with it, then I guess the last guest bedroom is yours.”

Lance whoops. “Great! It’ll be like having a little sister.”

“I thought you said you had a little sister,” Hunk says, confused.

“No, I have  _ nieces,”  _ Lance says. “But they were way younger than me, so I couldn’t beat them up at Mario Kart without feeling bad.” He smirks across at Pidge.

She sneers back. “Oh, you’re  _ on.  _ I’ll make you eat those words.”

Shiro sighs, and wonders how the hell he keeps collecting teenagers for what was  _ supposed  _ to be a secure ex-Covenant hideaway, and how the hell he somehow keeps being responsible for them on top of it. He hadn’t signed up for this. He hadn’t even considered this was a  _ possibility  _ when he’d left home. 

_ Left home.  _

But this was home now, wasn’t it? Or maybe it was home  _ too.  _

It’s all so damned confusing. Why did Sanda ever have to come back and remind him of everything before? 

“Shiro?”

He blinks. Lance, Hunk and Pidge are in a heated argument about the best characters and techniques for various video games, complete with enthusiastic gestures, energetic hissing, and a few too many spines producing from Lance’s shoulders. But Allura sits next to him quietly now, and gives him a concerned look, wings ruffling gently around her shoulders. “Are you alright?”

He shakes his head, as though snapping himself out of a daze. “I’m fine,” he lies. With her loathing of the Covenant—entirely justified—he doesn’t really feel like admitting any of his confusing thoughts for his old life to her. “Just...tired. It’s been a long couple of days.”

She nods understandingly. “You’ve no obligation to stay,” she says. “If you would prefer to be home. Or you may take one of the guest rooms for a rest, if you like.”

Shiro shakes his head, this time in denial. “No, that’s fine, but thank you. I’ll stick around until Keith wakes up and give everyone a ride home. I’d rather be around everyone for now, though.” He’d been alone for far too long for the past few days, and he hadn’t realized just how badly it had started getting to him.

“Besides,” he adds, as an afterthought. “I owe your mice my story, at some point. And I have a feeling that will take a while.”

She chuckles in amusement. “I understand,” she says. “Would you at least like me to heal that for you?” She gestures to his bandaged neck. 

“It’s not that bad,” he assures her. “It’ll keep.”

“Please. I’ve felt rather useless in this venture. I understand the need for me to stay indoors,” she says, raising her hand to forestall Shiro’s argument, “But all the same, I would like to be of  _ some  _ use, at least. I’ve already healed the others of their injuries. At least I can help in this small way, after everything the rest of you have done.”

“It’s not small,” Shiro insists. “But if you really want to, then I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Allura says with a smile. She presses a hand to the side of his neck, closes her eyes, and concentrates. Her wings emit a dim glow, barely noticeable under the living room lights, and the cuts beneath the bandages itch. He knows without having to look a moment later that they’re sealed when she removes her hand. His ribs are less sore as well, from where Lotor had kicked him, and the aches in his muscles feel just a little less insistent. 

He relaxes. “That is a lot better,” he admits. 

“I’m happy to hear it,” Allura says. “Now please, take it easy for the rest of the day. After everything the lot of you have been through in the past few days, you certainly deserve it.”

“For once,” he says, “I don’t think I’ll argue with you on that.”

* * *

Thankfully, the rest of the day goes relatively smoothly. 

Shiro’s friends are all great people to have around in a pinch when he  _ needs  _ them, but the nice thing about them is they’re all great to be around even when he doesn’t. Lance and Hunk are a comedy duo unto themselves, and adding Pidge to the mix adds a whole new layer of amusement. 

They spend the day telling each other stories of their previous adventures over card games. Lance regales them with the story of his introduction to Shiro, with significantly more embellishment on his heroic deeds, while Allura corrects him with fond exasperation. Hunk tells his story with significantly  _ less  _ over the top theatrics. Pidge tells them about her own adventures through the USA and Europe on her own, and shows them pictures of her full family. 

It’s nice. It’s  _ fun.  _ It almost feels normal. Like for a moment, Shiro can just pretend he’s a regular, every day twenty-something hanging out with family, and  _ not  _ the heir apparent to a bloodthirsty lineage he’d done everything in his power to escape. 

It passes the time surprisingly quickly. That, he’s grateful for.

He excuses himself only once, to meet with his congregation of mice. As promised, he tells them everything about his more recent battles with Lotor and Sanda, excluding only the personal elements. The mice worship him as something just shy of a deity, and unquestionably believe he can handle almost anything. He really doesn’t need to pile on his doubts and worries.

But his decisions, and his tactics, and his fights—those he can tell them, from the moment he left to go run reconnaissance on the crossroads to the moment he returned this morning. The mice are enthusiastic listeners, reacting with jubilant “Hails!” at his moments of glory, and hushed, awed prayers of protection and faith at the moments when he almost falls. By the time he’s finished, it’s been over an hour, but the attentive mice already have everything memorized. He’s sure next time he returns to the penthouse, his deeds for the past few days will have been converted into scripture. 

Not for the first time, he reflects on how his life is very, very strange. 

By the time he’s done with the mice, the sun is just starting to set, and a sun-dazed Keith emerges from the depths of the specially darkened, windowless room Allura had prepared for him ages ago. Even in a half-asleep stupor, he wakes ready for a fight, and the others laughingly assure him the fight’s over and everything’s good as they sit down to a dinner made by Coran and Hunk.

“It’s not fair,” Keith grumbles, as he sits with them at dinner and gets caught up on the details of the day.  _ “Everything  _ important happens when I’m not there.”

By the time they finally say their goodbyes to Allura, Coran and Pidge, it’s nearly ten at night, and everyone is beat. Both Lance and Hunk shuffle off for their rooms with jaw-cracking yawns, citing fatigue after a long day. 

Shiro tries to do the same, flopping down onto his comfortable, not-rock-hard bed in his safe and secure room for a night of  _ real  _ rest. But despite the comforting familiarity of his surroundings, all he can do is stare at the ceiling as the minutes tick by on the glowing numbers of his bedside clock. There are too many thoughts whirling around in his head, and too many uncomfortable feelings, for him to even think about falling asleep. 

After over two hours, he finally gives up on rest entirely and shuffles out into the kitchen. Maybe tea will help.

Keith, unsurprisingly, is wide awake long past midnight. Sometimes he heads out when the rest of them are sleeping, wandering the city or visiting the Marmora Society. Tonight it looks like he’s opted to stay in, tidying the place up a little after the hasty evacuation Lance and Hunk had made a few nights ago, before settling in to watch TV. 

He doesn’t look up at first when Shiro settles down on the other side of the couch, steaming mug of tea in hand. It isn’t uncommon for Shiro to join him in the hours of so-late-it’s-early, after a night of insomnia, or a worse night of awful dreams. Keith usually stays quiet, content to provide silent companionship and support, or a solid distraction in the form of shows or video games that Shiro can passively absorb without needing to participate. 

Shiro must look worse than usual, though, because halfway through his tea Keith glances over at him and says slowly, “Shiro...are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Shiro asks. “We won. Both battles, even. We beat the impossible.” He can’t quite keep the bitter edge out of his voice, though.

Keith pauses the Netflix show he’s partway through, and turns his attention fully to Shiro. “You’ve just...seemed kind of  _ off  _ since this whole thing started. With the crossroads, and Sanda showing up.” 

Shiro laughs, but it’s a tired sound. “Yeah, well. I’ve never had to juggle  _ two  _ equally huge issues at the same time like that, before. But it’s over.”

Keith is silent for a moment, before he finally says, “Doesn’t seem over to you, yet.”

Shiro says nothing.

“Which one is it keeping you up?” Keith asks. “The crossroads, or Sanda?”

“It’s nothing. Neither.” Shiro stares into his half-drunk tea, and regrets coming to sit on the couch at all.

More silence. Then, “You know you can talk to me about it. If you want to. After everything you’ve done to help me out, and all the dumb stuff I did when you first took me in...I don’t mind returning the favor. I wouldn’t judge.”

“You didn’t do dumb stuff, Keith,” Shiro reprimands automatically, looking up from his tea. “You were in a bad situation and you didn’t know any better.”

Keith gives him a very pointed look. 

Shiro groans, and tips his head back against the couch. “And that was you proving a point. I take it you already know which one, then.”

Keith looks a little apologetic. “Your heart jumped when I said her name.”

And that’s what Shiro gets, for trying to avoid any kind of heart to heart with a cryptid that can quite literally hear him doing so. “Have I mentioned before I hate that you can do that?”

“Sorry,” Keith says. “But I mean it. If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

Shiro isn’t really great at  _ talking.  _ Not about his own issues. He prefers to hide them behind walls and pretend they don’t exist. He’s always game to help others with their problems, but when it comes to his own, he prefers a practical solution or avoiding the issue entirely.

But...it would be nice, to get it off his chest. Admitting to what an awful person he is, what terrible thoughts he’s had in the past few days, it’s never going to be comfortable. He’s fought so hard to earn himself a better reputation, to start fresh and split himself from his past. It’s painful to admit he hadn’t made as much headway as he’d thought to  _ himself,  _ much less to others. He’s scared of his own thoughts, sometimes, and about what they mean about  _ him.  _ If he can’t trust that he can keep himself rational about it, what’s to say anyone else would?

Allura wouldn’t understand. She hates the Covenant too strongly, and it had taken him too long to solidify a strong working relationship and then a friendship with her. He can’t risk losing it. Coran is much the same—like a nice uncle, but with too strong a vendetta against Shiro’s roots to be comfortable coming clean to him. Lance and Hunk are great, and both would probably be willing to listen. But they both treat him too much with awed hero worship, and rely too much on his direction and support, and he doesn’t think either one would really get it. Pidge, despite being potentially a new roommate, is still too new to their little team for something like this.

Keith, though...Keith has never treated him like a cryptid-friendly urban legend, or a once-in-a-lifetime reformed monster. Keith treats him like an older sibling, or a friend—someone he deeply respects, and trusts unconditionally, because Shiro gave him his second chance at life. But also someone who treats him as  _ normal.  _ Or as normal as it gets, in this sort of lifestyle. Maybe he wouldn’t immediately hate Shiro for what he’d been, because he already sees him as who he is now. 

So he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and spits out the first words before he can second guess himself. “It was just...hard. Seeing her again. I thought I buried all those old memories and put it behind me. I just...realized I hadn’t.” 

Keith considers this for a long moment, before he says with slow realization, “You miss your family. Don’t you.”

Shiro winces. But there it is, out in the open, and it can’t be taken back anymore. 

“It’s terrible,” he whispers, staring down at the mug in his hands again. “I know it’s terrible of me. They’ve done a lot of awful things. I probably know more than any of you just what they’ve done and what they’re capable of.”

He swallows. “But for the first eighteen years of my life...they were my  _ family.  _ And I’ve seen them so differently than any of the rest of you could, too. It’s just...just like with the cryptid community, it’s not so cut and dried as ‘they’re evil, and we’re not.’ That’s what both sides tried to teach, and it’s just...it’s not that simple.”

Keith tilts his head a little, clearly listening. But he doesn’t interrupt. And Shiro is glad for it, because now that he’s finally gotten himself started, he’s not sure he could pick up again if he were stopped. 

“They’re people that have suffered too,” Shiro whispers, after a long moment. “Sanda’s story, about her husband...it’s not unique to her. A lot of them have lost people, and they just want to make sure nobody else has to go through that pain. And in other ways, a lot of those people are really  _ good  _ people. They really believe they’re protecting the innocent. The old blood lineages, they donate  _ thousands  _ every year to charities and food banks and homeless shelters. They listen to victims of cryptid attacks and believe them when no one else does, and protect them and get them help. 

“My own family—the same Shiroganes everyone around here hates—they value honor and tradition, and have for hundreds of years. My father and mother would sooner slit their own throats than turn away a person in need. They would willingly put their own bodies between a deadly threat and an innocent life, even if it cost them their own. Because that’s what duty and honor means to them. Those are the beliefs I was raised on.”

How can he even begin to explain it? The way his mother had ruffled his hair and smiled at him proudly when he’d mastered her blade throwing techniques by age ten? The way his father had gently reassured a homeless man that the creature he had seen was real, and they didn’t think he was crazy, and that no matter how much the police scoffed at him they  _ would  _ protect him? The way Sanda had once gone into a burning building three times to return a terrified woman’s husband and daughters to her, heedless of the danger to herself? The way he and his fellow trainees would spend hours in the Olympic-sized gym at Penton Hall perfecting their combat techniques, and then hours more watching movies and TV shows, making snide comments about inaccuracies and silly mistakes over bowls of popcorn? How could he explain how he’d smiled with them, laughed with them, grieved with them, bonded with them—and at the same time, he knows how drenched in blood they all are, and how none of them will ever be clean?

There aren’t words to explain that mix of fondness and disgust, hope and loathing. It’s too deep and too strong and it’s all so  _ confusing.  _

But he has to say something. So after a moment, he murmurs softly, “It’s just...parts of them are good people. But what they stand for is still wrong. I couldn’t accept that, and I still can’t. But sometimes...sometimes it’s still lonely. My parents think I’m  _ dead,  _ and there’s nothing I can do about that. I miss them, and I miss the good parts about my friends. I miss having other people that are like me. I miss my name not being a curse word. I miss spending my life  _ not  _ being completely paranoid. Sometimes I’m still not sure I understand where  _ home  _ actually is.”

He laughs, and the sound is just a hair’s breadth from hysterical. “And this morning,” he says, “I thought, for the first time, maybe I had a chance to change that. Because Sanda seemed... _ almost  _ reasonable about working with you guys. And I thought, maybe this is it. Maybe I could teach them. Maybe I could see my family again. My old friends again. And I wouldn’t have to feel awful about missing them, because they’d get it, this time. But I couldn’t have convinced her in time, and I chose to have the crossroads take her memories, including her chance to become a better person. And I  _ had  _ to, there was no choice, people would have died if I didn’t, but a selfish part of me wanted to say no to that deal because maybe I could get my family and friends back. Like I could have  _ both  _ worlds.” 

By the end of his rambling, his tea is on the coffee table, and he’s leaning forward, head cradled in his hands, balanced on his knees. “Six years of telling myself I’m doing things better, and I still miss the murderers I ran away from. I haven’t learned anything. Any way I look at it, that makes me a terrible person.”

He finally peters out, exhausted, absently rubbing his temples with his thumbs to try and stave off the beginnings of a headache. He can’t quite make himself look in Keith’s direction. He’s not sure he wants to see Keith’s reaction.

Keith tells him anyway. “I don’t think that makes you a terrible person,” he says, after a long moment. “I think it just makes you a person.”

Shiro blinks in surprise, and slowly raises his head.

“I don’t think it’s bad to miss the people you loved once, even if you disagree with them now,” Keith adds. “It’s...I mean. Like you said. It’s your family. They did a lot for you. You can’t just  _ turn off  _ caring about them like a light switch. That’s not how it works.”

Shiro gives him an incredulous look. “They’ve done awful things. They would kill you in a heartbeat just for existing. And you think it’s  _ okay  _ for me to miss them?”

“That’s not the part you miss. You said you’re not okay with what they do.”

“I used to be.  _ I’ve  _ done terrible things too, Keith.” He stares at his hands, which shake a little. “I don’t think you understand that. I’m not much different from them.”

“You are. You disagreed. And you left.”

“No. I’m really not.” He rubs his face, exhausted beyond belief, and yet so full of manic energy at the same time. “Keith...I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if another one of them shows up. If it was my mother or father, or one of my friends...I don’t know. I didn’t even have an answer for Sanda until the crossroads dropped one in my lap, and next time that won’t be an option.”

“You don’t have to know that right now,” Keith says. “And if it does happen— _ if— _ then we’ll help you figure it out. You don’t have to deal with that on your own. We shouldn’t have made you deal with it alone  _ this  _ time.”

Shiro blinks in surprise at that. “What? Of course you should have. I’m the only one who could. None of you know the Covenant like I do.”

But Keith shakes his head. “No. I never even thought about how hard it must have been for you to turn your back on everything you knew just to do the right thing.”

“It shouldn’t have been that hard,” Shiro mutters, bitterly.

“You said at the start it’s not all black and white,” Keith points out. “Why is this any different? We should have known how hard this would be on you. But we just kept thinking about us. Sorry.” 

“It’s not—you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Well, neither do you.”

“I’m sympathetic towards  _ murderers,  _ Keith. I think that’s something to be apologetic for. I’m just fooling myself about being a better person, at this point.”

“You’re wrong,” Keith says simply.

Shiro stares at him. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re wrong,” Keith repeats. “If you were really that sympathetic towards the Covenant, you wouldn’t have taken Lotor’s deal for  _ thousands  _ of cryptids you don’t even know. And you wouldn’t have threatened Sanda to her face to kill her if she hurt one of us.” He shrugs. “You still protected all of us despite everything you’ve been dealing with. You always do the right thing  _ because  _ it’s the right thing. That makes you better than them.” 

And Shiro’s jaw actually drops a little at that because...well, because Keith is  _ right.  _ The mess of memories Sanda had dredged up were wonderful and terrible. He missed his family and his friends. He wanted them to understand, and to change, and it hurt when his only chance to spark that had been erased. 

But when it came down to it, he’d chosen his new family instead. He’d  _ meant  _ what he’d said, about killing Sanda, in that moment last night. No matter how much he’d agonized over the scenarios, in the heat of the moment he had been ready and willing to take her down if it spared his friends’ lives, and damn the consequences. And while Lotor’s deal had been painful, Shiro still didn’t regret it. Lives had been saved. However much it hurt, it had been  _ right.  _

He misses the  _ memories. _ But he doesn’t miss the cause. And no matter how much he might miss his old friends, or his family, no matter how much he wishes he could  _ fix  _ them and make them see sense—it can’t break his resolve to do the right thing.

So maybe he’s not fooling himself after all. Maybe he really has made himself a better person. Maybe he has more resolve than he’d realized. 

“Thanks, Keith,” he says.

“Sure,” Keith says. “Do you feel better?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro says, after a long moment. “I don’t...feel as much like I’m faking my way through and just playing myself that I’m a good person. But I wish I didn’t have to remember.” He closes his eyes. “It was easier when I didn’t have reminders. I could forget about my old life if I tried hard enough. I thought I’d moved on. I guess I hadn’t.”

Keith frowns.

“I don’t think that’s going to go away for a while,” Shiro says. “But...it does feel a little better to just...tell somebody.” Getting that weight off his chest felt...well, not  _ better  _ exactly, but at least there was less weight to stumble under.

“Well. I’m always here if you want to vent,” Keith says, a little awkwardly. Belatedly, it occurs to Shiro that Keith isn’t all that great with  _ talking  _ and  _ feelings  _ either. The fact that Keith tried it anyway makes him unexpectedly grateful.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shiro says. He takes a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth, a basic meditative technique. It’s easier, this time. Better. 

Maybe there  _ was  _ something to this talking thing.

They sit for a moment in awkward silence before Keith finally reaches for the remote, flipping his show back on after deducing talking was over for the night. Shiro idly watches the conversation between two protagonists for a few minutes, nursing his now-cold tea, before saying conversationally, “So.  _ Shiro,  _ huh?”

Keith’s shoulders tense for a moment, before he says intelligently, “Um. You caught that?”

“Keith, it’s my name. And I’m right here.” He raises an eyebrow, and asks idly, “Any particular reason you switched to my nickname?” Keith had been fairly adamant about using the name ‘Takashi,’ since it was what Shiro himself had insisted on years ago, even though ‘Shiro’ had been picked up by most of their other friends and immediate allies since Lance coined it.

Keith grumbles under his breath for a moment, before muttering,  _ “She  _ called you Takashi. It seemed kind of weird after that.”

Ah. Sanda. “It is still my name,” Shiro says mildly. “I don’t particularly mind if you use it.”  _ Takashi  _ still didn’t have the same feel of a curse word the way  _ Shirogane  _ did.

“It’s fine. Everyone else uses it anyway. I figured I’d at least try it out.”

“Well, you’re welcome to either,” Shiro says. “But fair warning: the first time Lance catches you switching to the nickname, he won’t let you live it down. Not after you’ve bickered with him so much over which name is appropriate.”

Keith grumbles under his breath. “Yeah. I know. But I’ll still take Lance over Sanda.” 

“What a coincidence,” Shiro says, with a weak smile. “I made the same choice.” 

Keith snorts at that. 

Shiro finishes off his tea and sits with Keith a bit longer, watching another two episodes of whatever the latest Netflix binge is. He doesn’t really know what’s going on in the show, since he’d joined Keith halfway through, and he only passively absorbs it anyway. It serves as a decent backdrop to put his thoughts in order, at least, and he finds the whirling storm of emotions and thoughts in his head is quieter, after the talk.

By the time the credits start to roll and Keith skips ahead to the third episode, Shiro’s eyes start to feel heavier, and everything is just a little bit blurrier. Keith glances at him once, and says over the intro music, “Go back to bed, Shiro.” 

“I’m not—”

“I can  _ hear  _ your insides slowing down,” Keith says. “You’re about two minutes from passing out, and then tomorrow morning you’ll complain about your back killing you because you fell asleep weird on the couch. Save yourself the hassle.”

Shiro grumbles under his breath, and Keith rolls his eyes. “I know, you hate that I can do that, you’ve said it already. Go to sleep. You earned it.”

Shiro can’t help but shake his head at that, but he dutifully levers himself off the couch, leaving his empty mug on the coffee table. Keith can grab it later. “Alright, alright. I’m going. Thanks again, Keith.”

“Mm,” Keith answers, but Shiro has a feeling that he knows the gratitude is for more than a mere rescue from an aching back. “See you tomorrow, Shiro.”

Shiro chuckles a little as he heads back to his room. To his immense relief, he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and has the first truly  _ restful  _ sleep he’s had in days.

* * *

Colleen Holt stares at him across the late night coffee shop table, scrutinizing him carefully. Shiro watches her back as patiently as he can, and does his best not to fidget like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

Long years of staring down terrifying cryptid beasts help. But if Shiro’s being perfectly honest with himself, he’s faced tamer lindworms. Colleen might be human, but she’s clearly learned to hold her own enough to be an honorary bogeyman in her own right.

“So,” she says, after a long moment. “You’re Covenant.”

“Ex-Covenant,” he corrects automatically. “I left the organization six years ago.” Even if he still misses some of the people, sometimes. 

_ Miss the memories, not the cause.  _ He’s been trying to get better at distinguishing the two since his talk with Keith a few nights ago.

Colleen Holt gives him a dubious look. “Is that so.”

“Mom, it’s  _ fine,”  _ Pidge cuts in. “You can talk to almost anyone in the community in this city, they’ll back it up. Shiro’s been working for Allura for years. And he saved my life a couple times,  _ from  _ the Covenant, and he saved Matt too. I told you all this already.”

“Maybe so,” Colleen says, “But considering you believe running away from home, gallivanting across the country and overseas  _ into Covenant territory,  _ and making deals with an unknown omnipotent force,  _ without  _ your mother’s permission, is an acceptable activity for a fifteen year old—I don’t entirely trust your judgement, Katie.”

_ Oof.  _ Even secondhand, Shiro can still feel the impending sort of doom that can only come from a disappointed parent about to mete out punishment. 

Pidge visibly wilts in her seat, for a moment, before scowling at her mother—a particularly effective expression, coming from a bogeyman. “Yeah, well  _ apparently  _ digging up the first actual  _ leads  _ on where dad and Matt are after six years doesn’t get me a pass!”

“Not on your life, young lady,” Colleen answers, utterly unphased by an expression that had sent grown men gibbering in fear. “I’ve half a mind to ground you for the rest of your life for that stunt. You had me worried sick!” 

The two of them glare at each other for a moment. Shiro has a distinct impression he’s been forgotten. He also has an instinct to flee before he’s remembered again, and fights it back through sheer willpower and years of training. 

Pidge is the one to finally break eye contact, glaring down at her hot cocoa and the remains of a sweet pastry. “Yeah, well...you’d still be worried sick if it weren’t for Shiro. Besides all the other stuff, he’s the one that made me call you.”

Colleen’s watchful gaze turns back to Shiro. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” he agrees, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “Once Pidge mentioned she planned to stay in the city, and that you were still out there. I thought it best she had your permission.”

Shiro’s not entirely sure what Colleen sees in his expression, but after a moment she nods. “Well. At least  _ one  _ of you has some common sense.” 

Pidge grumbles. 

“Are you the one who chose this location too?” Colleen asks, glancing around the coffee shop.

“Yes,” Shiro says. “Neutral setting. After-dark hours—easier to hide Pidge’s complexion and hands, and better on her eyes. Some of their employees are familiar enough with cryptids not to ask questions. When Pidge said you wanted to talk, I figured this was the safest bet to make everyone comfortable.”

“How considerate of you.” Colleen’s gaze is still fastened onto him, but now she looks more thoughtful. Like she’s trying to figure him out, and can’t quite place all the pieces. 

Honestly, Shiro feels the same way about her. When Pidge had showed them the photos of her family, his first impression of Colleen had been something calm, warm and motherly. When Pidge had wearily reported her mother insisted on meeting Shiro and the others before making any decisions on letting her stay, Shiro had thought the request entirely fair. 

He had  _ not  _ quite expected Colleen Holt to have as much of a willful personality or steely backbone as she had presented in the first ten minutes of meeting her. In retrospect, that had probably been a stupid assumption to make of any woman who had married into bogeyman culture. 

“Alright,” Colleen finally says, after a long moment. “Tell me about yourself then...Shiro.” She stumbles over the name carefully, like she’s not familiar with it. Or maybe too familiar with a different version of it, which is enough to tell him she knows  _ plenty  _ about his family’s reputation. 

No wonder she’s so cautious. He really shouldn’t be surprised. 

“I already told you everything, mom,” Pidge grumbles. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Colleen says. “I want to hear it directly from him, anyway.”

Shiro shrugs a little, keeping his hands carefully wrapped around his cup of coffee, obviously visible. “What do you want to know?”

“Start with the basics,” Colleen says. “How did you end up in Garrison anyway?”

Shiro hesitates. Considers. “Well, for a start,” he says finally, “I met your son while on a mission…”

He takes his time laying it all out, answering any questions Colleen has when she wants clarification. The coffee shop is secure, and he’d deliberately chosen a back corner table, so nobody can sneak up on them and Pidge’s less-human features are obscured by shadows. Even at ten thirty at night the place is fairly busy, which means enough noise that they won’t be overheard, as long as they keep their voices low. 

And he goes through it all, excluding only his more private thoughts and feelings. How he’d met her son—who he now knows is named Matt—and accidentally saved his life before realizing he was a bogeyman. How his interaction with Matt had made him start to question the teachings he’d grown up with. How he’d rejected them and fled to America to start over. How he’d met Allura and slowly earned her trust, until she’d finally requested his help protecting Garrison City. How he’d made it his mission to help people ever since, and made more friends along the way. How Pidge had been included in that promise, when she’d come to him for help because she’d had nowhere else to go.

He explains the details of Pidge’s situation more thoroughly. Evading Sanda. Getting her to someplace safe and listening to her story. Identifying the hole in Pidge’s deal. Taking her to Slav to prove it. Formulating an attack against the crossroads themselves, and leading the charge to successfully appeal her bargain. Ensuring Sanda thought she was dead, so she wouldn’t be chased again.

Above all, he remains blatantly truthful. If Pidge wants to stay in Garrison, whether or not she stays at his apartment, she’ll need reliable allies she can trust. And reliable allies her  _ mother  _ can trust, if she wants to get permission to stay at all. Shiro has neither a need nor a desire to start off any kind of relationship with Colleen Holt on a deceitful note, not if he legitimately wants to ensure Pidge stays safe if she’s going to be here. Pidge has already proven she’ll jump headfirst into the fire for a clue to her father and brother—which means both she and Colleen need to believe he’ll be there to haul her back out again. 

Explaining it all takes the better part of an hour, and by then his coffee is gone and his throat is starting to feel a little dry from so much talking. “I’m not like the others from the Covenant,” he finishes softly. “I regret the actions that I took when I was there. There’s no way for me to ever make it fully right, but I promise, I have no interest in hurting your family, or the community. Not anymore.”

Colleen studies him for a long time, while Pidge looks back and forth between them curiously. After a while, Colleen finally says, “I never knew the Covenant of St. George was ever a thing for a long time. Not until after I met Sam.”

Shiro blinks. “Oh?”

Colleen nods. “I didn’t really know about the cryptid community, growing up. And I was pretty surprised, when I learned about it through Sam...and then when I learned there was a whole group of humans dedicated to destroying it. I think it’s just...so sad. That kind of continued lifestyle can only come out of hate or ignorance. Maybe both.” 

Shiro has nothing to say to that.

“But you...it sounds like you did change. You really did save Katie, didn’t you?”

“As best as I could,” Shiro agrees.

“And my son, too.”

He winces at that. “I can’t really take credit for that,” he admits. “I might have saved him from that troll, but I didn’t do it because of a change of heart. I thought he was human.”

Colleen gives him a knowing smile. “You’re quick to blame yourself. At least you’re truthful. But I wasn’t referring to the troll...I was talking about when you let him leave, after.”

“Oh.”

She gives him a sympathetic look. “It can’t have been easy for you, can it? Growing up in an environment like that, and then walking away from all of it? Doing the right thing isn’t always so simple and straightforward.”

Shiro swallows, mindful of both Pidge’s and Colleen’s eyes on him. “No,” he says finally. “It isn’t.” 

Her sympathetic expression grows stronger, if that’s even possible. Then, to his surprise, she stands up from her seat, circles around to the one next to him, and promptly draws him into a hug. “I am so sorry for everything you’ve been through,” she says, after a long moment. “And thank you for saving my children.”

Shiro is so startled by the gesture he freezes, bewildered. He could break free easily—Colleen is much smaller than him, and only human—but although it’s a little awkward, it’s also...well.  _ Warm.  _ And surprisingly comforting, to just be accepted so easily for who he is. And almost familiar, like the embraces he received from his own parents, years and years ago. Like for just a moment, he doesn’t have to be the responsible one.

It only lasts for a few moments, before Colleen gives him a quick squeeze and lets go. She pats him once on the arm, gives him another understanding smile, and returns back to her seat on the other side of the table.

Pidge looks back and forth between the two of them for a moment, before leaning towards Shiro and stage-whispering, “That was a mom hug. I think you just got adopted.”

Shiro blinks. “Well,” he says, after a moment, “There are worse families to be a part of.”

Pidge grins at him. “That’s true,” she says. “Just wait until you  _ really  _ meet my brother. I think you guys would get along really well, outside of, you know, life or death situations. My dad will probably adopt you too. He’s always been a weird bogeyman.”

“That is not the way to talk about your father, young lady,” Colleen says, focusing on her daughter with the same strict, no-nonsense smile of before. “And we still haven’t talked about  _ your  _ situation.”

Pidge squawks indignantly. “What’s to talk about? We’ve  _ both  _ been wanting information about dad and Matt for years. Now for the first time we might have an actual shot at finding them. I’ve got to stay here and dig into it!”

_ “You  _ are fifteen years old, and that is not your responsibility,” Colleen says. She sighs. “But I agree, these are the first promising leads we’ve had in a long time.” 

“See?”

“I could move here to Garrison,” Colleen says thoughtfully. “Help with the research. And  _ you,  _ young lady, would be solidly grounded.”

_ “What!”  _ Pidge splutters. “That’s not fair! And anyway, you know you can’t move out here. Besides losing your job, what if Dad and Matt are out there still? If they do go home, or find a way to contact us, they’ll get through to an empty house. We can’t let that happen.”

Colleen frowns. “I suppose that is true.” 

“It’s fine, mom,” Pidge says, pressing her attack eagerly now that she’s scored an obvious hit. “Shiro already said I can stay at his apartment as long as you were okay with it. And you’ve heard all the stuff he’s done now, he’s  _ really  _ good at keeping people safe here. Plus I’m sure he’d be willing to help if I got more leads, so I won’t be doing it all alone.”

“Definitely not,” Shiro agrees, giving Pidge a rather pointed look. “But please don’t make another crossroads deal. I don’t know if I can get you out of that a second time.”

“No way. I’m done with that guy forever.”

“Did you really offer to let Pidge stay?” Colleen asks. “I thought she was just exaggerating the story.”

_ “Mom!”  _

“More like one of my other roommates invited her, but I really don’t mind giving her my guest room,” Shiro explains. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve given people places to stay. The other three living there with me have different circumstances than Pidge does, but all of them needed someplace safe to live. They get along with Pidge pretty well already, so I don’t think there would be a problem there. But I  _ did  _ want to be sure she had permission from her mother first.” He gives Pidge another pointed look.

“I get it! I get it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone about me running away to  _ search for my missing family members,”  _ Pidge grouses. 

“Oh, you should be,” Colleen says. To Shiro, she adds more calmly, “But thank you for ensuring she did call me. I wouldn’t have known any of this if not for that.” 

Shiro nods politely. “Of course.”

Colleen considers. “I’d like to meet the others you’ve given a home to as well, to be sure,” she says, after a thoughtful moment. “But as far as I can tell, it sounds like you’re a person I can trust with Pidge’s well-being and protection. I’d be willing to consider letting her stay to pursue these leads on the rest of our family.”

Pidge’s eyes all but light up in excitement. “Really? That’s great!”

_ “But,”  _ Colleen says, raising a warning finger, “you have to  _ earn  _ this right. You text or call  _ every day,  _ even if it’s just to say ‘I’m alive.’ You will keep me updated on all progress on leads. You’ll be continuing your schoolwork— _ don’t give me that look Katie, you’re fifteen years old _ —which I will be reviewing and grading. And I’ll be speaking to Shiro regularly to ensure you are actually following through and not taking too many risks. If I don’t hear good things, I’ll haul you straight back home and ground you until you’re ninety.”

Pidge scowls back at her. Shiro swears he can feel electricity crackling between the two. “I call once a  _ week,”  _ she counters. “And I get to design extracurriculars and projects based around my own interests.”

“I’ll need to review and approve your ideas first, but I am open to suggestions,” Colleen agrees. “And you call me  _ immediately  _ on new leads, regardless of weekly updates.” 

“Fine,” Pidge agrees, crossing her arms. 

Colleen smiles. “Then you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Shiro looks back and forth between the two, barely concealing his bewilderment. He’s beginning to understand why Pidge thought she could bargain with the crossroads. And it probably should come as no surprise that Colleen barters as effectively as a bogeyman, if her husband  _ and  _ kids all come with the instinctive need to deal. 

“Of course, I’m sure you won’t mind giving me updates on Pidge’s progress?” Colleen adds, giving Shiro a friendly smile. “And in return, I’ll send you a monthly stipend for necessities.” 

Shiro blinks at her. “Oh...that last part really isn’t necessary, Mrs. Holt,” he protests.

“It’s Colleen,” she corrects. “And if you’re already going to be looking out for my daughter, of course it is. I imagine you’ll already have your hands full protecting her every time she goes haring off after a lead on my husband and son. I’m not going to expect you to pay for food, clothing and technology on top of it all.” 

“Just give in already,” Pidge advises. “You’re not getting out of it.” 

“I...see.” Somehow, Shiro feels like he’s gotten in  _ far  _ over his head. Giving Keith and Lance a place to stay when they’d been homeless hadn’t been  _ this  _ complicated. And while Hunk does have a family back home, he more or less sees to his own needs with the stipend he gets from them. “Well...thank you, then. I’ll put it to good use. And I’ll give you my phone number after this, for when you want to check up on things.”

“Excellent.” Colleen looks satisfied. “Katie, I’m staying in a hotel for the next few days. It has two beds. Why don’t you come home with me for now and we’ll catch up on things? We can meet with the rest of Shiro’s friends later and finalize the details.” 

“But...okay, fine.” Pidge gives her mother a hesitant smile. “I really  _ did  _ miss you. And there’s a lot to catch you up on. I just...I had to do this. It was important.”

“Yes, yes,” Colleen agrees, as she stands up and motions for Pidge to follow her. “You certainly are your father’s daughter, that’s for sure. He couldn’t resist the importance of uncovering the unknown, either.”

Shiro has no idea what Samuel Holt is like, but he can say with absolute certainty that Pidge is for  _ sure  _ Colleen’s daughter, too. They are absolutely matched when it comes to pure stubbornness. 

He’s wise enough not to voice his thoughts, though.

“I can give you a ride back to your hotel, if you like,” Shiro offers, also standing. 

“That would be very kind of you,” Colleen agrees. “We’d be happy to accept. I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine, Shiro.”

He sincerely hopes that’s the case. He’s fought werelions, maddened incubi, and the spirit of the world itself, but Colleen Holt’s bad side is the absolute last place he wants to be right now. 

* * *

In the end, Colleen does finally agree to let Pidge stay at Shiro’s apartment, after several odd interviews with the rest of his friends to verify that they are not, in fact, crazy axe-murderers.

“Is that what having a mom is like?” Keith asks, bewildered, after his. “Because if that’s the case, they’re scary as hell.”

“Mothers are...complicated,” Shiro explains, as mildly as he can. He thinks back to his own— _ miss the memories, not the cause— _ and the way she had unhesitatingly killed a manticore that had tried to eat him when he was eight. She’d then spent an hour yelling at him about how foolish he’d been, until he’d wondered if getting eaten would have been a better alternative. “They get protective. Sometimes scarily so.”

But once approval is given, Pidge officially becomes the newest roommate...and once again, Shiro adjusts to having yet  _ another  _ person living in his supposedly secure apartment. 

He’s getting more and more used to having a bigger family. He can’t say he minds all that much.

And Pidge is certainly a different kind of roommate than the rest. Like Keith, she has a more nocturnal schedule when permitted. Although she isn’t physically knocked out cold like Keith is at the rising sun, she does naturally prefer the dark as a bogeyman, and tends to be more active in later hours. 

Shiro isn’t sure how well Keith and Pidge will mesh overall, active when the rest of them are asleep, but as it turns out they get along surprisingly well. Pidge can be chatty, but it’s more when she’s excited about something, and Keith doesn’t seem to mind being a silent sounding board. He actually has somebody to talk to in the so-late-it’s-early hours, when everyone else is asleep, which Shiro privately thinks is actually pretty good for him. And if Pidge needs to go anywhere at night, at least Keith is around and familiar enough with the city to watch her back.

Which isn’t to say she isn’t around during the day, either. Pidge might prefer night as a general rule, but Shiro learns fairly quickly her sleep schedule is all over the place, and often determined by how focused on a given project she is. Half the time she stays locked up in her room working on something or other, or spends her time over at Allura’s, digging through the House Altea archives for information about her family. But it isn’t uncommon for Shiro to find technological bits and pieces spread out over his kitchen table as Pidge builds things at seven in the morning or five in the afternoon. 

And when her and Hunk collaborate, an entire room can become uninhabitable with all of the parts, memos, notes, and wires strewn everywhere for...whatever it is they’re doing. Pidge seems to enjoy peeking in on Hunk’s textbooks and class projects for college, and even at fifteen she seems to keep up with college-level classes surprisingly well. Hunk seems to enjoy having someone else around who understands what he’s talking about, so Shiro leaves them be, other than occasionally reminding them that they do need  _ some  _ chairs to sit on that  _ aren’t  _ covered with robot parts or whatever they are. 

Shiro’s never quite sure what Pidge is working on in her free time, but he does keep tabs on her progress with her family leads, and dutifully reports back to Colleen when asked on Pidge’s well being. And besides her schoolwork and personal hunt, Pidge has made herself useful in other ways, too. 

As promised, she had updated both Allura’s digital security, as well as adding more technological security to Shiro’s own place. He can’t say he minds much, especially when she hooks some of the features back to his phone, so he can keep an eye on things even when he’s out and about. 

“Now if something like Sanda happens again, you’ll know if someone’s been around even remotely, and if it’s safe to go back,” Pidge says. “Heat sensors, hidden cameras at the entrances—the works. Pretty good, right?”

“Impressive,” Shiro says. It’s probably paranoid, but in his opinion, one can  _ never  _ be too paranoid these days.

Her other major contribution is digitizing his journals and records on cryptids, which is a shocking godsend he hadn’t known he’d needed. Pidge takes one look at his piles of ancient books, dusty scrolls, and leatherbound journals stolen from the Covenant, and his newer notebooks of translations and additional dossiers, and asks, “How do you ever  _ find  _ anything?”

“It can take a while,” Shiro admits. “Even knowing roughly where things I’m looking for are.”

“No way this is efficient,” Pidge says. “Tell my mom I’m making this an archiving project, and I’ll turn it all into a  _ functional  _ database. Way more useful.”

And she does, with a surprising amount of efficiency and skill. Anything Shiro has translated, she transcribes into clear, typed text. Old documents and texts are carefully scanned and stored, in order to be referenced back to later. Everything is set up in a database, with the ability to search for species by name, keyword, or notable traits. All of it is linked to a private server she and Hunk maintain in her room, accessed with either personal laptops or a specially designed, secure app Shiro can access on his phone. 

“I wish I had this months ago,” Shiro admits, genuinely impressed, as he tests it out by searching for feline-characteristic cryptids, just like he and his friends had looked for months ago for the Sendak debacle. He gets all of the same possible options they’d found after hours of searching, in just a few minutes.

“It’s not complete,” Pidge tells him. “There’s still a lot of stuff to scan or transcribe. And I can’t do anything about the ones that haven’t been translated, since I can’t write a good program to decode the language without understanding the language. And there’s still more I want to do with it, like photo recognition and comparisons—imagine if you could take a picture of a footprint on your phone and get a match to a cryptid! And of course I still need to make it user friendly so you can update it yourself when you figure out more stuff. But it’s a start.”

“It’s incredible,” Shiro says with a grin. “Thanks, Pidge. This will save a lot of time. And maybe because of that, a lot of people.”

Pidge beams. “Happy to help,” she says with a grin.

Of course, like with every  _ other  _ cryptid that’s moved into his apartment, Pidge isn’t fully human, and that means adjusting to some unusual habits. Like the way she’ll often leave leftovers just shy of going bad, since bogeymen tend to prefer their food a little more on the  _ ripe  _ side. If anything, it means food never goes to waste, since anything that might make Shiro or Hunk sick is prime eating for her. 

Or the way her favorite thinking spaces for coding projects and tracking leads are under her bed and in her closet, or any other cramped, shadowy space she can find. It takes a little getting used to, peering into the closet to let her know dinner is ready and finding gleaming eyes and too-sharp teeth peering out of the darkness, or when she absently reaches for someone’s ankles while under the couch to get their attention so she can ask a question. 

Shiro is beginning to have a vague understanding of why the threat of a bogeyman in the closet scares children so much. It doesn’t take him long to get used to it, personally. But it  _ had  _ admittedly been funny the first time she’d snagged Lance’s ankle in passing, and he’d been so startled he’d ended up stuck to the ceiling and half-transformed. 

Shiro had asked her to at least  _ try  _ to make it clear where she was hiding, after that. For everyone else’s sanity, if nothing else.

But mostly, it’s just interesting to have another personality around. She enjoys talking tech with Hunk, playing video games with Lance, and late-night Netflix binges with Keith. She’s helpful for both Shiro’s work and Allura’s, and dedicated to her own. He can make sure she stays safe while looking for her family, and maybe even help her out with it.

And maybe, one day, he might even meet her brother again. After everything Matt had done, inadvertently or not, to spark Shiro’s own change into something he really wanted to be, he’d really like nothing more than to thank him. 

It’s definitely a day he looks forward to. Until then, what he has now—this  _ new  _ family, the one he’s willing to fight for, kill for, do the right thing for—is more than enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Pidge's arc! Next up is the last and final arc, pulling everything together :)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with the story so far!


	25. Homo sapiens: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay folks! Had a lot on my plate yesterday and no time to post.
> 
> Also, this is your final warning that this arc is probably the most gruesome of the lot, and contains some pretty graphic imagery of blood rituals and human sacrifices. If you're squeamish, tread carefully.

“I voluntarily chose a profession where running  _ toward  _ screaming is considered a good idea. It is entirely possible that there is something wrong with me.”   
—Alex Price,  _ Half-Off Ragnarok _

**_A somehow still secure apartment, despite five people now living there_ **

“Shiro! You coming to game night with us?” Pidge asks.

Shiro blinks, and looks up blearily from his laptop and pages of handwritten notes strewn across the kitchen table. Pidge and the others are all gathered around him, watching with various degrees of hopefulness. 

He starts when he spots Keith among them, and glances towards the clock on the microwave in surprise. It’s September, but even with nightfall getting earlier and earlier, he hadn’t realized it had gotten dark enough for Keith to even be awake. He’s gotten so caught up in his research he’s lost hours. 

Research that had gone nowhere. No matter where he searches, no matter what he tries, he just can’t turn up any leads on  _ Galra,  _ whatever that is. 

And he’d tried.  _ God  _ he’d tried, almost every day, in the two months since the warning Lotor had given him.  _ Galra  _ is out there somewhere. Whatever it is—a cryptid, an organization, a person—it’s dangerous, it’s organized multiple mass murder attempts in his city, and it’s strong enough to subdue a cosmic source. And it’s got its eyes on him, and all of his friends. 

He has to find it, before it finds them.

But he doesn’t have a clue where to start to find it. His leads turn up nothing. His sources don’t know anything. He’s filled Pidge in on the details, but she can’t find anything through digital channels and databases. Allura is aware of the danger and agrees about the importance of finding it, equally angered by Galra presence in  _ her  _ city, but her extensive networks don’t know anything. Keith’s contacts with the Marmora Society come up equally barren. Shiro had even tried visiting the Sanctuary to talk to Griffin and the others, to see if they had overheard anything while prisoners to Sendak’s men, but while they willingly gave him any information they could it had all turned up nothing.

Shiro is angry and frustrated at the failures. He’s ignored this too long, and it’s festering now. People could  _ die  _ if he can’t find these enemies. He doesn’t know what this mysterious ‘mistress’ or this Galra are planning next, but if it’s as bad as the last few incidents, it’s going to get violent and bloody. He  _ has  _ to find them before it gets that far.

But he can’t. And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t figure out Galra’s plan, either. What does it all  _ mean?  _ Multiple planned, violent attacks with the intent of high death counts? Experimenting with cryptid abilities? Seizing the anima mundi and reinvesting its energy elsewhere? Are these just distractions, or is it the enemy’s actual moves? What is the  _ endgame  _ here? And how can he stop it? 

“Shiro?” Lance says. “Game night?”

Shiro blinks, and shakes himself out of his thoughts. He glances up at the others as he realizes they’d called him several times, and he’d let himself be too distracted again by his work to even notice. 

That won’t do. He’s safe while at home, but he  _ really  _ can’t afford to make a habit out of not paying attention to his surroundings.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, at their disappointed, worried looks. “What’s this about game night?”

“Game night at Allura’s place!” Hunk says, with cautious optimism. “Coran suggested it last week, remember? He says we’ve got a big enough group now to do a real good game of  _ Monsters and Mana. _ ”

Shiro blinks again.  _ “Monsters and Mana?” _ he asks, bewildered.

Pidge’s eyes practically light up in delight. “It’s like  _ Dungeons and Dragons,  _ but designed by cryptids for a cryptid playerbase,” she explains. “I’ve always wanted to play. Matt used to, but I was too young to participate when he was still around.” She looks crestfallen for a moment, but quickly wipes the expression from her face.

“I’ve heard of  _ Dungeons and Dragons _ ,” Shiro says. “Though I never played it. I can’t say I’ve heard of the other one.” Though he’s a little puzzled at a cryptid-designed game using the phrase ‘monster,’ which the community tends not to like as a rule.

“Not all that surprising,” Pidge says, waving her many-jointed hand absently. “It’s more or less the same game, except people in the community aren’t automatically racist caricatures in the menagerie, and have been added as playable races and stuff. Everything labeled as a monster is imaginary.” 

“Yeah, and Coran said he knows how to be the loremaster,” Hunk adds. “That’s the guy who’s in charge of running the game. He said he used to play  _ Dungeons and Dragons  _ back before he knew about the cryptid community. And then after he met Allura’s dad and learned about  _ Monsters and Mana  _ he used to run games for all his community friends. And now he can do it for us too!”

“It sounds kind of nerdy and junk,” Lance adds, trying to affect boredom and not quite succeeding. “But everyone else wants to play. Even Allura’s gonna join in.” He smiles gleefully. “Could be fun, I guess.”

“You were invited too,” Pidge says. “It’s way more fun with a big group. Are you coming?”

“I don’t know…” Shiro says, glancing down at his research attempts. “I really need to find these guys.” He can’t afford to waste time on trivial things, not when lives are potentially at stake. He could never forgive himself if he spent time playing games and missed a lead that could have saved lives.

The four of them exchange concerned glances, before Keith speaks up. “Shiro, you’ve been going really hard at this Galra thing lately. We’ve  _ all  _ been looking for them, but you’ve barely done anything but search. The only time you stop is to sleep, eat, do your self defense job, or to take a mission if Allura calls.”

“And you don’t even do the first two unless we remind you,” Hunk adds, giving him a pointed look. “I mean, you were always bad at eating, but now you’re  _ really  _ bad at it.”

“We all think you could use a break,” Keith finishes. “You can’t save anybody if you break down trying to find them from stress or exhaustion.”

Shiro hesitates. He does have a point there. Trying to find the endgame to all of this before Galra can enact it is mentally taxing. He probably would benefit from a break, loathe as he is to admit it. 

“We’re all playing,” Lance adds. “Even  _ Keith  _ is, and you know how much Keith hates fun.”

“I do not hate fun!” Keith snaps. “And  _ you  _ were the one complaining about playing a ‘nerd game.’” 

Lance ignores him. “And if anything does go wrong, we’ll be at Allura’s,” he continues. “She hears about everything going down in the city first  _ anyway.  _ If anything it’d go faster if you’re there.”

“And it’s only one night a week,” Pidge says, hopeful. “Please, Shiro?”

Shiro sighs, glancing around at his work again. Well, it  _ had  _ been going nowhere, and he’d been getting frustrated about it. Maybe if he takes a break and comes back to it, things will be clearer. 

After a moment, his mouth quirks with a hint of a smile. “Alright, then. You’ve worn me down. I’ll come. But,” he adds, with a raised finger, “if I  _ do  _ get leads on this Galra business, I’ll be cancelling showing up until it’s resolved.”

“That’s fine,” Keith says bluntly. “If you get leads on this Galra stuff, we’ll be helping you with it anyway.” The others nod in agreement.

Not for the first time, Shiro wonders what on earth an ex-Covenant agent like  _ him  _ ever did to deserve such good friends. 

As it turns out, the break does wonders for him. It’s nice to have a moment to just  _ breathe,  _ without the guilt of not doing enough to weigh him down. Hunk and Coran make little appetizers and specialty drinks for everyone to enjoy according to their racial preferences—by now, Shiro knows to only take any mug color-coded black to avoid accidentally ingesting something toxic. The den in Allura’s penthouse is cozy, full of overstuffed chairs and soft couches gathered around a low table that’s spread with guidebooks and map tokens and little figurines. The air is full of laughter and gentle teasing, enthusiastic explanations as Coran walks them all through how to play the game, and the occasional raised “ _ Hails!”  _ of Aeslin mice. 

It feels relaxing, and safe. 

The game is surprisingly entertaining, too, and has far more complexity than Shiro had thought possible. The first night, Coran has them design their characters, and helps them with figuring out stats and skills. Most of the others choose their races and classes relatively quickly. Even Keith settles on a vampire monk without too much difficulty. 

Shiro takes the longest, flicking through the pages of one of Coran’s guidebooks and reading through each option carefully. He keeps coming back to the page about the paladin. He  _ really  _ likes the sound of the class, but he’s not entirely sure it’s appropriate, given his personal history. After all, as he had explained to his friends just a few months ago, the Covenant of St. George technically  _ was  _ a paladin order. Frankly, he’s a little surprised to find the class as an option still in a game redesigned by and for cryptids. 

But...he  _ really  _ likes the sound of the class. It has all the justice, nobility, and honor he’s always wanted to believe in his whole life. Honestly, he can’t think of any class more fulfilling than paladin.

“Oooh,” Hunk says, peeking over his shoulder at the guidebook and the page. “Paladin. Very fitting. It’s like, perfect for you.” He gives Shiro’s shoulder a nudge.

Shiro frowns. “That wouldn’t be weird? With me being ex-Covenant?”

“Nah,” Lance says, fiddling with one of the figurines while he waits for Coran to finish with Allura’s character sheet so he can have his turn. “You’re a  _ good  _ paladin on our side, y’know? A knight in shining armor for cryptids everywhere.”

Pidge nods in agreement. “If you like it, you should play it. We don’t care.”

Shiro is relieved to hear it. He  _ really  _ likes this class. “Paladin it is, then.” But just in case, he makes sure to make his character’s backstory as opposite his own or any of his old colleagues’ as possible, unrelated to absolutely  _ anything  _ about modern paladins. Training in solitude with a single master, pillars of knighthood, a quest given by his imaginary teacher for the sake of good and justice and duty. It’s  _ perfect.  _

Once their characters are set up, Coran gets them started at the beginning of what promises to be a long and involved campaign. He starts them out simple, so they can get used to the mechanics, since all of them are new to the game. Roleplay takes a little getting used to, but Shiro can see by the end of the first session just how much potential  _ Monsters and Mana  _ has. It’s limited only by the imagination of the loremaster and players, and serves as an excellent training tool, requiring problem solving, teamwork, and creativity to succeed. It’s fun.

He does wish he didn’t die as much, though.

By the end of the first game night, Shiro has to admit, he’s glad he stepped away from his search. He feels mentally and physically refreshed in a way he hasn’t for weeks now. Who knew relaxing with friends for a night playing a tabletop game could make him feel ready to get back into the real fight? 

So they play more sessions. Once a week, usually, schedules and unexpected cryptid missions permitting. Allura is happy to host them, Hunk is happy to feed them, and Coran is delighted to be their loremaster for more and more sessions as they dig deeper into a long campaign mystery, hunting the mysterious wizard Dakin and all the trouble he’s causing all over Aurita. Pidge tracks their progress enthusiastically and efficiently in her laptop, keeping track of items and details the others miss. Lance, despite his reluctance to play at first, hunts down unique dice sets matching Hunk’s color-coordinated cups for everyone as presents. Even Keith, slower to get into roleplaying than the rest, still has fun figuring out clever ways to fight in their encounters. 

Shiro enjoys the games a lot too. It’s a rare opportunity to be somebody else completely, without having to bother with all the hassle of setting up an alias with reputable-looking fake identification. He can just be a paladin and have fun swinging an imaginary sword and shield at things at that are very, definitively bad, without having to worry about if he’s doing the right thing or hurting someone innocent. It’s nice. 

The dying a lot still sucks, though. 

Coran’s nice enough to let him keep sticking his character back in the game, but it would be nice if he didn’t  _ have  _ to do that all the time. It’s not like his character has bad stats, or anything. He doesn’t  _ think  _ he’s playing poorly. It’s definitely in character for his character to try to shield the others or tank the bigger monsters. Shiro just happens to have the most absurd luck with his dice rolls in the history of anyone, ever. 

That’s not even an exaggeration. The Aeslin mice report that not once in the history of High Priests and Gods and Goddesses playing ‘Games of the Gods’ in the Altea household has any deific player ever rolled as poorly as him. At this point Shiro is fairly certain his bad luck is being canonized in the scripture of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness for all time.

Even when Coran lowballs an encounter, things seem to go just wrong enough for Shiro’s character to usually end up dead. Hunk and Allura play classes with healing skills, but even that’s not enough to save him, not when a klazgool critical hits on all  _ four  _ of its attack rolls in a single turn, and Shiro critically fails to defend on them. 

“How are you  _ so good  _ at being a paladin in real life, and so  _ bad  _ at it in a game?” Lance asks, bewildered, by their fourth session and Shiro’s eighth or ninth stay at death’s door.

“I’m actually not very good at it in real life, either,” Shiro says mildly. “I forswore all my oaths, remember? Here, let me use your dice for this death saving throw, maybe I can hold on.” He drops his handsome black onyx dice to reach for Lance’s ocean blue D20. 

“Hands off! Don’t steal my luck!” Lance scowls, snatching his dice away.

Keith rolls his eyes, and dutifully places his red and white swirled twenty-sided die in Shiro’s palm. “Good luck.”

He doesn’t have good luck, and dies again. In the end Coran just sighs, and writes it into Shiro’s character sheet that his paladin god will resurrect him and return him to the game at the end of a battle as long as he dies doing Justice and everyone else lives through it, and that’s the end of that. 

Shiro wishes he’d live more often, though.

Still, even with the constant dying, it’s fun. Shiro actually looks forward to the game nights, when they can organize them. They’re like little rewards for otherwise relentlessly devoting himself to finding ‘Galra.’ During those few hours things  _ almost  _ feel okay, like everything is right with the world.

So it’s a real shame when their fifth session gets interrupted.

It starts innocuously enough. Several Aeslin mice dart into the den in the middle of their gaming session, scramble up the padded backless stool Allura uses to keep her wings comfortable, and bow to her deeply. “Lion Goddess!” one of the blue-streaked mice reports. “A Call that Must Be Answered has come, and one of your devoted requests the aid of their Goddess!”

Allura looks up from their epic imaginary combat session and sighs. “Work never ends,” she says apologetically. “Excuse me, I must see to this. It may be urgent. Hunk—please roll for me until I’m back, if needed. I trust you to handle my healing abilities.”

“You got it!” Hunk promises.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Shiro says absently, as he runs over his character sheet to consider his next spell. The call  _ could  _ be a case he needs to get involved in. Or it could be something more mundane, like bugbears reporting an outing in their stolen cable or electricity to their underground homes, or a request for unusual and potentially illegal food sources. Allura’s job as protector of the city cryptids is just as much administrative as it is reactive, and doesn’t always require an on-call former Covenant agent to deal with it.

Honestly, he hopes it’s something simple like that. It’ll be annoying for Allura to deal with, but he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to have to leave in the middle of this battle. His character is actually alive, for once, and he’s pretty sure his paladin will be useful against these demons if he can just pick the right move.

But two combat rounds later Allura returns, her normally dark skin ashen, with a notepad clutched in her hands and her wings pulled close to her body in a protective display. “Shiro,” she almost whispers. “You need to hurry, right away.”

The jovial atmosphere in the room evaporates instantly. Shiro drops his dice midroll, uncaring of what he gets, and immediately stands to face her. “What’s wrong? Is it Galra?”

“No. There’s been a murder. Several murders, actually,” Allura says. She actually looks a little faint, and Coran immediately abandons his seat to take her arm and gently guide her back to her padded stool. She nods to him gratefully, before consulting her notepad and scribbled notes. “Very bad ones, from the sounds of it. In the park. The siren that called to report it to me was quite shaken. She found the bodies near Nalquod Lake. According to her, they don’t look like simple killings...there are symbols written in blood, and the bodies are... _ posed.”  _

Allura swallows delicately. Shiro frowns. Allura is tougher than most of her species, but caladrii don’t take well to violence and bloodshed. Whatever details the reporter had given Allura, they had obviously deeply disturbed her. That was already a bad sign.

And from the sounds of it, these murders already have very deliberate intent to them. They’re talking blood rituals or a serial killer, and either way, it’s a bad thing to have in his city. 

Lance’s head perks up, and he gives Allura a worried look. “Sirens at Nalquod? I’m friends with a lot of them. It wasn’t sirens that were killed, was it?”

“No,” Allura says, consulting her notebook. “The one who reported it to me was a siren named Florona, but she didn’t mention her kin being killed. She  _ did  _ say one of the victims was a cryptid, though. A lesser gorgon, from the sounds of it.”

Hunk looks ill. Although he’s a pliny’s gorgon, and not technically the same species as a lesser gorgon, they’re still close enough genetic relatives for the fact to hit close to home. “Oh,” he whispers, after a moment.  _ “Oh.”  _

“I’ve already called my contacts in the GCPD to slow down the discovery,” Allura says. “Hopefully they should be able to keep human police from discovering the murder, or the non-human victim. I will continue to monitor the situation. But you need to get down there as soon as possible.” 

“I’m already on it,” Shiro says. “Does this Florona have a callback number? I’ll want to talk to her, too...see if she saw anything that might help.”

“She said she didn’t, but she might not have understood if she did see something of significance,” Allura says. “I’ll text you her number, and the exact coordinates. She said it happened closer to Rygnirath Castle.”

“Thanks. I’m on my way.” Shiro heads for the door, already doing a mental inventory of his weaponry as he does. He never goes anywhere unarmed, so he has a plethora of guns, knives, and other weapons to choose from if they come across anything dangerous, but nothing specialized outside the basics: consecrated blades, a few standard charms, a small phial of purified salts for emergencies. Hopefully, he won’t need anything more specific just yet.

It comes as no surprise to him that Keith, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge all silently get up to follow him, each wearing grim looks on their faces. Shiro frowns at them. “You don’t need to come. It sounds like it’ll be gruesome.”

“Bloody murders in the middle of the night? You’ll need my help for that,” Keith says, blunt and to the point. 

“And you heard what Allura said,” Pidge adds. “Symbols in blood, and posed bodies? You know as well as I do that sounds like blood magic.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Shiro says. “It could be a serial killer.”

“But if it isn’t, you’ll need me,” Pidge says confidently. “I’ve got the most knowledge of magic thanks to my dad’s research.”

“Your mother will kill me if she learns I’m exposing you to brutal murders at  _ fifteen.”  _

“Then don’t tell my mom,” Pidge fires back, scowling. 

Shiro sighs. It won’t be that easy, and he  _ fully  _ expects a lecture from Colleen Holt later, but Pidge does have a point. If it is ritual, he needs to know what the endgame is as fast as possible so he can stop it before it gets that far.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But you two don’t need to come. You can stay here if you want, play a one-off game with Coran or something,” Shiro says, glancing to Hunk and Lance.

Lance scowls at him. “What Keith said,” he snaps, jerking a thumb at the vampire next to him. “You’ll need my nose, even if I don’t see as good in the dark. Besides, like I said, I’m friends with Florona—I wanna make sure she’s OK too, and she might be willing to talk to me more than you.”

“And I can’t let you guys go alone,” Hunk says. He looks shaken by the news, but resolute. “If something can kill any kind of gorgon, that’s  _ scary.  _ I couldn’t just sit here and play Monsters and Mana while the rest of you are out here facing that down.”

Shiro sighs. “I’m not talking any of you out of this, am I.”

“Nope,” four voices answer, resolute. 

“Alright. Fine. But  _ promise  _ me you’ll all be careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, but it already sounds gruesome. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.” 

“We’ll be careful,” Keith promises. “But we’re not letting you go alone, for the exact same reason.” The other three nod in agreement. 

Frustrating as they can be sometimes, it is admittedly nice to have backup in the moments when Shiro needs it. 

It’s past midnight by the time they arrive at Rygnirath Castle and begin the search for the murders. This late at night people can still be found at Arusian Park, but the place isn’t nearly as packed as it is during the day. The lake area isn’t as well lit as some of the walking paths and areas with monuments, which thankfully means there’s less chance they’ll come across unexpected visitors. That’s both a blessing and a curse—it means they’ll be able to review the situation without interference, but it’s also most likely the reason the murderer was able to get away with it in the first place.

Fortunately for them,  _ finding  _ the murders isn’t that hard. Not unlike the werelion incident, the moment they get close to Rygnirath Castle, both Keith’s and Lance’s heads shoot up and stare in the same direction through the darkness. Shiro follows wordlessly, keeping an eye out for Pidge and Hunk, as their two resident blood-feeding pursuit hunters lead the way to a scene of carnage.

The bodies are located in an observation area alongside the lake, on a smoothly paved little aside that leads away from one of the main paths. It has benches facing both the interior of the park and the lake, and a nice view of Rygnirath Castle. During the day, it’s a great place for photo opportunities, to stop for a snack, or to watch people taking the rented paddle boats out onto the water. At night, it’s usually deserted, tucked into a shadowy corner of the park, and the unlit lake is too dark to really watch. 

Tonight it isn’t deserted. Tonight there are two bodies stretched out in the paved observation area, unmoving and silent. The lighting is poor, but Shiro can make out an unmoving wreath of snakes around the figure on the left’s head, which must be the lesser gorgon. Next to her is a man, also dead, positioned opposite her so that his feet rest near her head and vice versa. 

Even for his weak human senses, the stench of blood is strong. His stomach churns uncomfortably at the smell of so much of it, thick and cloying in his nose. Living with two blood-drinking cryptids, he’s used to the sight and smell of blood by now. But this is so powerful it’s overwhelming, and brings to mind violent slaughters and bloodbaths from his Covenant days, not cozy memories of dinners and game nights at home. 

Pidge gags at the smell, and clamps her long-fingered hands over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut and fighting back the impulse to vomit. Hunk has no such compulsion to resist; he takes one look at the bloodbath, turns around, and promptly throws up all of M&M night’s snacks into a nearby bush. 

Even Keith and Lance, designed by evolution to think of the scent of blood as  _ dinner,  _ look disturbed at the sight of so much of it spilt everywhere. “This is  _ sick,”  _ Lance whispers, pure horror on his face. He mutters something angry under his breath, and then says shakily, “I’m gonna go...look for Florona.”

“Good,” Shiro says quietly. “Hunk, go with him. I don’t want anyone alone right now.”

“Yeah,” Hunk says, with clear relief in his voice. “Yeah, you’re right. Can do.” He swallows, wiping his mouth, and trails after Lance into the darkness. His snakes are so agitated Shiro can hear them hissing even through their calming charm a good ten feet away.

“Keith...is anyone watching us?” Shiro asks next, glancing around. 

“Don’t see or hear anyone,” Keith says, scouring the area around them with eyes that gleam faintly red in the reflective glow of the distant park lights. “I don’t think I can smell anyone either, but it’s hard to tell right now. The blood is a lot, even for me.”

“Okay. Good. Let me know if anybody’s coming. We definitely don’t want to be spotted in the vicinity right now.” Shiro had snatched his field kit from the car, and now retrieves a flashlight from the bag. He’s going to need to see the details, as much as he really wishes he didn’t have to.

The details, unfortunately, are just as gruesome as he’d expected. Both victims are in the center of the small paved observation area, limbs intentionally posed to make an approximate box shape against each other. Both have been stripped, and slit open from collarbone to navel. The wounds drip blood over their sides into sluggish puddles, dribbling into cracks in the pavement and oozing slowly ever outward. More blood paints a wide circle around them, nearly touching the edges of the paved area, and there are still more painted sigils of some kind around the edges of the circle and closer to the bodies. 

Shiro’s stomach swoops even lower, and it’s only years of training that keep him from vomiting into the same bush Hunk had used. “That tears it,” he whispers. “This is definitely ritual.” But nothing he’d ever heard of or seen before.

Pidge nods in shaky agreement alongside him, still with one hand over her mouth. Shiro seriously regrets bringing her along for this. It was gruesome even by  _ his  _ standards.

But after a moment she pulls her hand from her mouth and says shakily, “There’s something on the bodies, too.”

Shiro frowns, and peers closer, aiming the beam at one of the bodies. What he’d taken for blood spatters are actually wounds, he realizes after a moment. Not signs of injury or resistance, though...when he peers closer, he recognizes a few of the wounds as the same symbols edging the bloody circle. They’d been carved into the bodies, but from the lack of bleeding and the relative clarity of the injuries, it had happened after the victims died. 

“Do you recognize any of them?” Shiro asks.

“One or two, I think,” Pidge says after a moment. “It’s hard to say. I can’t see them well from here. If I had pictures of them, I could cross-reference them against my dad’s research…”

Shiro eyes the blood-spattered mess surrounding the bodies. There’s no way they could get close enough without tracking evidence on their shoes, not while trying to navigate in nearly pitch darkness with only a flashlight to guide the way.

“I can do it,” Keith says. “I can see where I’m going, and the blood doesn’t bother me. I can get close enough to take pictures.”

“Okay. Good. Get as much as you can...especially of the symbols.” It feels like a disgusting breach of etiquette, taking pictures of two brutalized, stripped victims left to rot in the park, but there’s no help for it. They need a starting point to research from, and they can’t stay here long without getting caught. All Shiro can do is silently apologize to the corpses, and do what he can to make sure there aren’t more victims.

Keith nods, and slips forward with preternatural agility, deftly leaping over and around spatters Shiro can’t see or smell until he reaches a safe vantage point on one of the benches. Shiro tosses him a second maglite, which Keith deftly plucks out of the air, and uses as lighting while he snaps photos with his cell phone. His expression as he works is focused, but grim. He might not have a problem with blood, but this level of brutality would be disturbing for anyone with even the tiniest grain of morality, and Keith is no exception.

Shiro sets to work as well, snapping photos of the outer ring of blood and the sigils from the safety of the park grass. Most of the symbols are wobbly and indistinct now, after the blood has spread out over the pavement, but it will at least give him a starting point. He’d hoped to find fingerprints, but even if the blood smears hadn’t been distorted over time, it looks like whoever had done this had been smart enough to use a tool instead of their fingers to scribe their work. 

As he works, he talks, low under his breath. “Talk to me, Pidge. What do you know so far?”

Pidge shakes her head miserably. “Not much. It’s obviously blood magic, not that you need me to tell you. That stuff’s  _ dark.  _ Dad didn’t like to study it much, and he really didn’t like me looking at his notes for it. He was always more into the kind of magics we could use to help people.”

Shiro nods. There’s no way in hell  _ this  _ is helping anyone, other than whoever had done it. Maybe not even then. Blood magic was only used for so many things, and sometimes those things backfired.

“The symbols look kind of familiar,” Pidge continues. “I think I remember the shapes of some of these from the one time I snuck a peek at my dad’s work. I wish he was here, he’d probably know right away.” She looks fretful for a moment, but then shakes her head. “If I can get mom to send me all of dad’s research, I could probably figure it out. But with  _ this  _ many symbols? Whatever this is, I can guarantee you it’s big.”

Shiro clenches his jaw. That’s the last thing on Earth he wants to hear. “Duly noted.”

He gets what pictures he can of the ritual circle and symbols, and then turns his attention to the victims. Keith is still dutifully photographing the symbols on the bodies, leaping lightly to a second bench to switch targets. But Shiro takes note of the broader details. One male, one female. Different species—the guy definitely wasn’t a gorgon of any kind. Deliberately posed to form a neat square, with the ‘corners’—their heads and feet—just touching the edges of the circle. 

“Keith,” Shiro says slowly, “Can you tell if the man is another cryptid?” If it was, there was a possibility this was some kind of targeted attack on non-humans.

But Keith shakes his head sharply. “Smells human,” he says curtly. “She’s got the same kind of reptile smell Lance and Hunk have, but he’s as human as they come.”

Shiro frowns. What could that possibly mean? 

“Get pictures of their faces, too,” he says after a moment. “We’ll pass her face around through Allura’s channels, but we might get a faster return on him if Pidge hacks the human registries and tries to get a facial match.” If they could figure out who the victims were, that might give them a clue. If the man had been a cryptid sympathizer, this could still be some kind of hate attack. If he wasn’t...well, he’d still be easier to ID than the gorgon, and maybe they could still figure out where he’d been when he disappeared. 

Keith nods grimly, and does as ordered without complaint.

“Can Kolivan send a team to clean this up?” Shiro asks. “There’s no way we can let the police find this.” Besides the completely exposed corpse of a lesser gorgon, a double murder  _ this  _ violent would definitely make headlines. There would be pictures and conspiracy theories, and the whole thing would draw the Covenant like flies to a corpse. They can’t risk it, not so soon after getting rid of Sanda.

“Maybe,” Keith says slowly. “The Marmora Society’s good at damage control...and they’re  _ really  _ good with blood cleanup. It’s past midnight, though...they’re not gonna have a lot of time to work.”

“Call him anyway,” Shiro decides. “I could get rid of the bodies, but it will cost me time I could use to get to the bottom of this, and that’s a risk we can’t take. Besides...Kolivan’s got access to facilities we can use for autopsies, and medical professionals who can handle it quickly. I want to know if there’s anything missing from those bodies.”

Pidge makes a face, and nearly gags again. 

Keith nods grimly in agreement. “I’ll get on it as soon as I’m done with this.”

Shiro leaves him to it, and starts circling the area, searching for further clues. Pidge helps, clearly grateful to be away from the gruesome scene, but with a determined look on her face all the same. Her eyes are better in the dark, as a nocturnal species, so he’s grateful for the help.

They barely look around for five minutes, though, before Shiro’s phone vibrates with a text message.  _ Found Florona,  _ Lance’s text reads.  _ Over by lake. She’s scared 2 come closer. U wanna talk 2 her?  _

_ Yes, coming now,  _ Shiro texts back, and goes to collect Keith. Of all of them, Keith is probably safest alone at midnight, as an accomplished apex predator designed for the dark, but Shiro’s not taking chances anyway. Whoever had done this had subdued a lesser gorgon, which was no mean feat. He hasn’t lived this long by underestimating the murderers he hunts. 

Keith trails after them, talking quietly on his phone to Kolivan, while they head to the edge of the lake about a hundred feet farther down the way. Shiro can make out the vague shadowy shapes of Hunk, Lance, and one other figure by the lakeside, and makes his way to them cautiously.

Florona is a siren, as Allura had briefed them. Her hair is a shade of reddish-orange just  _ slightly  _ too brilliant to pass for a natural human redhead, but easily passed off as ‘hair dye.’ Other than that, she looks nearly indistinguishable from a human, but considering she appears more or less Lance’s age, that’s hardly surprising. She might have started developing scales from the waist down, but that’s easily hidden with clothing, and her metamorphosis wouldn’t progress to the formation of a classical ‘mermaid’ tail until she was closer to forty. She  _ would  _ definitely start developing more of a fondness for water, though, which explained what she was doing at Garrison City’s largest body of water after midnight.

Florona regards him nervously as he approaches, and looks half ready to bolt back for the lake. Hunk, on the other hand, looks relieved when he spots Shiro heading their way through the gloom, and nudges Lance on the shoulder, pointing in their direction. Lance looks up and waves. 

“Shiro!” he calls softly. “Thank goodness. Here, this is Florona. Florona, this is Shiro. It’s cool, he’s gonna help us figure out what happened and he won’t hurt you.”

Florona doesn’t look like she entirely buys that, so Shiro is careful to keep both his hands visible and weaponless as he approaches. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

“Likewise,” Florona says politely.

“I won’t beat around the bush,” Shiro says. “I know you probably want to get somewhere safe as soon as possible, and I don’t want to hold you up. What can you tell me about that crime scene?”

“Not much,” Florona says slowly, glancing nervously in the direction of the bodies. “I come here to visit family sometimes at night, once it gets quieter and there are less humans around.” 

She doesn’t elaborate on who or where, and Shiro doesn’t press her. Nalquod Lake is large enough to hold at least a few families of fully transformed sirens, and Lance had mentioned being friends with more than one in the area. But if she doesn’t want to out other members of her species in front of a known ex-Covenant agent, he’s not going to push her on it, especially since it’s unlikely they’re the culprits. A fully transformed adult siren would have a difficult time traveling on land, and no chance of taking down a lesser gorgon with such violence, even using their enrapturing voices. 

“Alright,” Shiro says. “So you were visiting tonight, and you came across the bodies?”

“Not at first,” Florona says. “I got here around eleven, and everything was fine then. I went swimming for a bit, but when I came up to grab something from my bag... _ that  _ was there.” She swallows. Although her voice has been calm and demure until now, it becomes more anxious as she insists, “I didn’t do it! I swear. I just found it like that. Please believe me!”

“I believe you,” Shiro assures her patiently. He frowns. “But that means whoever  _ did  _ do it had less than an hour’s window to make the kills and paint that ritual. Did you see anyone around?”

Florona shakes her head vehemently. “Nobody. Not even in the distance. This time of year it’s a lot colder at night, so most humans don’t bother coming to the park after dark unless there’s a special event set up by the city. That’s why I come at this time. I  _ definitely  _ would have noticed if anyone else was around.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. “And your...family. They wouldn’t have noticed anything either? Can sirens sense magic at all?”

Florona shakes her head again. “No. We don’t really use magic. Our compulsion songs aren’t even magic. And they wouldn’t have seen or heard anything.” 

That had been a long shot, and Shiro hadn’t really expected it to be so simple. Even so, the negative results are frustrating. 

“Did you know either of the victims?”

Florona looks a little green at the question, but answers regardless. “I don’t think so. I don’t know any gorgons at all. I might have seen the human around before, but he didn’t really stand out to me. I’m not very good with faces...sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Shiro says. “Thank you for your help, Florona. Allura gave us your phone number if we need to contact you further, but is there anything else you can tell us about this?”

She gives him a miserable look. “No. I wish I could be more help. I’m so sorry that they died...part of me wishes I came out of the water earlier and was able to help, but part of me knows I probably wouldn’t have been much use.” 

“That’s alright. You’ve already helped us plenty,” Shiro assures. “We know about it  _ and  _ we have a timetable thanks to you. Now go  _ home,  _ and stay safe, okay? You can leave the rest of this to us.”

“I’ll walk you to the edge of the park if you want,” Lance says, puffing up a little proudly. “You’ll be safe with me.”

“Sorry, Lance,” Shiro says. “I need your nose, and Keith’s. Florona, if you’d like an escort to safety, Hunk and Pidge can take you and meet us back at the crime scene.”

“I would appreciate that,” Florona says gratefully, gathering a purse from the reeds at the edge of the park. “I’ve already warned my family to be careful. I just want to go home, now.”

“Sure thing,” Hunk says. “Which way are you going?” Florona points in one direction, and the three of them head off, chatting quietly under their breaths and keeping a cautious eye out for attackers.

Lance visibly deflates for a moment, sighing, before turning to Shiro. “Well? What’re we looking for?”

“Clues,” Shiro says, gesturing back to the crime scene. “If either of you can pick up on the scent or scents of our killers, that would help a lot. I’m going to look for any other signs we can get of how our killers got there with the victims or left again.”

Lance swallows, visibly uncomfortable with the thought of going back to the corpses, but nods. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s get this over with, then.”

“Kolivan’s sending a team,” Keith reports, as they head back. “They’ll be an hour at least, he needs to pull them from all over the city and get the equipment. As long as Allura can keep this place clear tonight, though, he promises the evidence will be gone by morning.”

“I’ll let her know,” Shiro says. “You two start hunting for our killer’s scent.”

Unfortunately, while Allura  _ is  _ able to get her contacts on keeping the area clear, Lance and Keith make little headway on the ‘clues’ department. They both try their best to pick out the scent of the killer, and Lance even shifts into his quadruped form to sniff around in the grass and on the pavement like a bloodhound. But the only scents they can pick up on are the murder victims, and their own scents from the search.

“Even that’s faint,” Keith admits, and Lance’s spiny chupacabra head nods in agreement. “I can tell we were all here, but the blood scent is so overpowering it’s hard to pick out, and those are smells I’m familiar with  _ and  _ they’re fresh. I can’t pick up anything else.”

Lance shifts wearily back to his humanoid form with a defeated look on his face. “Same,” he says glumly. “Sorry, Shiro.”

Shior sighs, but shakes his head. “Not your fault,” he says. “I didn’t find any footprints or evidence either.” He’d focused on that while the other two had tried scent tracking, and when Pidge and Hunk returned twenty minutes later after escorting Florona, they’d helped. None of them had been successful. 

“Whoever did this knows what they’re doing, clearly,” he finishes grimly. In and out in less than an hour, leaving no obvious traces and able to evade both human and cryptid alike. Nothing about this is good.

“There’s nothing left here you can do,” Keith says. “You should go home and start researching what we did find. I’ll wait here for Kolivan’s cleanup team. I’ll head back home when they’re done, and bring you any information they found right away.”

“You’re not staying alone,” Shiro warns. “Not with a killer on the loose.” 

“I’ll stay with him,” Hunk offers. “Pidge needs to help you research magic stuff, but I don’t know how much help I’ll be with that. I don’t know magic. But I can be backup.” 

“You sure?” Keith asks, raising an eyebrow. “Crime scene cleanup is kind of...gruesome.”

Hunk looks queasy at even the thought, but nods anyway. “I’d rather throw up a bunch more than go home and find out one of my friends died tomorrow morning,” he says. “But...I probably  _ will  _ throw up a bunch more and I know it smells  _ really  _ bad for you guys, so sorry in advance about that.”

“Thank you, Hunk,” Shiro says. “I appreciate this.”

“I can’t be much help at night,” Lance says, still glum. “I’ll just head home with you, Shiro. I can help more tomorrow, but my nose is worthless with all this blood around right now.”

“I’ll help with the research, like Hunk said,” Pidge chimes in. “Keith—give me your phone so I can get those pictures, and then we can go.” Keith dutifully hands it over, and Pidge transfers the gruesome photographic evidence to her own phone with a grimace before handing it back.

“Be careful, you two,” Shiro warns. “Call if you need help, and don’t take unnecessary risks.”

“Yes sir,” Keith says obediently, and Hunk nods in agreement.

Shiro drives them home without incident, minus Hunk and Keith, and begins pulling out all their research materials and spreading them across the kitchen table with Pidge’s help. Lance, after watching helplessly for a little while, finally slinks off to bed at Shiro’s urging. 

“I don’t like feeling useless,” Lance insists. “Everyone else is doing stuff to help and you want me to go to bed?”

“Like you said—there’ll be more to do tomorrow,” Shiro says. “I’ll definitely need you as backup, and I want you well rested to do so. Hunk is going to be exhausted after spending the night out waiting for the Marmora Society, and Keith and Pidge don’t do daytime field work well. You’re my only backup.” 

That mollifies Lance at least a little, and he heads off to bed with little further argument.

Bed is a long ways away for both Pidge and Shiro, though. Pidge gets the photos on their phones set up on the laptop for better viewing, and Shiro pages through the grizzly images with a grim expression on his face. The lighting and the details are still a bit murky, but he can see enough to confirm he doesn’t know either victim. 

He sets Pidge to the task of identifying both of them by any means necessary. She crops their faces to send to Allura for identification, without the rest of the gruesome details; Allura will have a better chance of identifying the gorgon, at least. The rest of her night is spent on her own laptop, hacking RMV registries to check for a license or ID of the human male, browsing social media, and using any other trick she can think of to figure out who he is.

Shiro tackles the magic angle. Pidge had sent an urgent email to her mother to request all of her father’s magic research, but they wouldn’t get the response for hours yet. Colleen Holt lives on the western half of the country, and wouldn’t see or respond to the email until morning in her time zone. 

But he can at least study the basics. He digs through the digital archive Pidge had set up for him, as well as the journals and notes that hadn’t yet been transcribed, hunting for any mentioned instance of blood magic. 

What he finds isn’t promising. As Pidge had said, blood magic was dark stuff, usually used to benefit the caster at the expense of someone else. Often many someone elses, for larger spells. It doesn’t necessarily need a magical practitioner to use, although the effects are definitely intensified when handled by a witch or a sorcerer. 

But there isn’t any one specific set of runes for blood magic, and multiple types of sigils mean multiple potential end results for the ritual they saw tonight. Until they figure out which system is being used, they’re out of luck—and god help them if it’s something they’re not familiar with at all.

He sincerely hopes Samuel Holt can help them out with this one, whether or not he’s here. He’s never met the bogeyman, but he’s heard enough about his research and skill that he’s banking on the answers being in those notes Colleen Holt will hopefully send them tomorrow morning. 

He can determine some other things from the photographs, though. The bodies of the victims are gruesome to look at, but the more he studies the bladework in their skin, the more he realizes they had been treated with almost surgical precision. Outside of the long, deep cut from collar bone to navel, it doesn’t look like there are any extraneous cuts or wounds in their flesh, which means the victims weren’t excessively tortured. The gashes down their torsos are evenly cut with precision, and there are no hesitation cuts or accidental mutilations when attempting to get the right amount of force to make them. The runes carved into their skin are efficient and clean, with no ragged edges. 

Whoever had done this had practice and skill. They had either some kind of experience within a medical field—as a surgeon or mortician, perhaps—or this wasn’t their first ritual murder. The thought of  _ either  _ being true is enough to send a frigid chill down Shiro’s spine. 

He has to find them. He needs something to work with.  _ Now.  _

So he searches. He searches through everything he can think of—the entirety of Pidge’s archives, and all of his journals. He pours over notes in different languages. He digs through prior Covenant recorded accounts of blood sacrifices, struggling to read between the lines to what had actually happened. His eyelids start to flutter and the words start to run together, but he shakes his head and keeps looking, and looking, and  _ looking… _

* * *

A sharp  _ tap tap tap  _ near his ear gradually digs through Shiro’s murky senses. 

It’s dark, and slowly, he pulls his sluggish thoughts together enough to realize his eyes are closed. Everything else floods back to him slowly: the ache in his back and the crick in his neck, the way he’s folded forward and his cheek is pressed to a hard surface. The scent of old parchment fills his nose. 

The  _ tap tap tap  _ comes again, insistently, not too far away from his head. With a groan, he slowly wrenches his heavy eyes open.

He’s at his kitchen table, folded forward on his limited research, one of the old journals mashed into his face. Pidge is slumped in a nearby chair, also fast asleep at her laptop, snoozing with her long-fingered hands still on the keys. 

Keith stands next to his chair, cautiously tapping the table and the notes near Shiro’s face, but not actually touching him. They had both learned shortly after Shiro had given him a home that physical contact while asleep, even to just shake him awake, was a bad idea. Shiro had been trained to wake up fighting when vulnerable and always had at least one weapon close at hand, so it was an excellent way to get stabbed. Repetitive sounds were usually enough to rouse him without triggering a fight or flight response though, and Keith had dutifully taught the rest of Shiro’s roommates the trick as well each time somebody new moved in.

Shiro blinks and rubs sleep out of his eyes with one hand, while giving Keith a weak wave with the other. “Shit,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?”

“Five thirty in the morning,” Keith answers wearily. “Got maybe an hour before sunrise. Just got back. Hunk already went to bed.”

Shiro focuses on him. Keith looks exhausted. There are dark lines under his eyes, and his whole body seems to droop. Despite that, he looks unusually anxious. “You okay?” he asks slowly, before breaking into a jaw-cracking yawn. “Was cleanup really that bad?”

“They’re gone,” Keith says flatly.

“I’m sorry you had to do that, I know it’s not a fun job—”

“No,” Keith interrupts him. “They’re  _ gone.  _ But not because of us.”

Shiro opens his mouth to respond, pauses, and does his best to get his still sleepy mind around the words. “What?” he finally asks, after a long, confused silence.

“The bodies. The blood. The ritual circle. It was all  _ gone,  _ but not because of anything Kolivan or his crew did,” Keith says. “Hunk and I stayed near the murder site until I got a text from Kolivan saying him and his team were there. We went to go get them and when we came back, everything was just  _ gone.  _ Somebody else got there first.”

Shiro blinks. “How long were you away from the crime scene?”

“Ten minutes? Fifteen?” Keith estimates. “We had to move a bunch of equipment.”

Shiro shakes his head. “You can’t clean up a crime scene  _ that  _ fast. Not without a huge team, and I’m sure a dozen vampires would have noticed that. Even the smells of the clean-up crew.”

“We didn’t. None of us. There wasn’t  _ anything,”  _ Keith insists. “Take Lance if you aren’t sure. Maybe he’ll notice something different, his nose works a little different than mine. But I’m telling you, it was gone.”

“Alright,” Shiro soothes, raising a hand placatingly. He’s surprised this is agitating Keith so much. They’ve seen strange things in the past, but something about this  _ really  _ bothers him. “I believe you, Keith. The killer must have come back and done...something. We’ll head up there as soon as we can to look into it further.”

“Good,” Keith says. He sounds and looks so weary, and yet he paces in agitation for a moment, clearly still unsettled. “Something about it was just... _ wrong.  _ But I couldn’t figure out what. Either way, we looked for whoever did it for the rest of the night, but no one from Kolivan’s team found anything. Whoever’s doing this, they’re good.”

“And we’re going to find them anyway,” Shiro says confidently. “I promise. But you look dead on your feet, Keith. You did a good job, now go take a shower and settle in for the day. Hopefully by the time you wake up this evening we’ll have some progress to share.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Keith hesitates for a moment. “Be  _ careful,  _ Shiro. I really don’t like this one.”

“I promise I will be. We all will be,” Shiro says. And he means to take Keith’s warning seriously. Not much agitates Keith, and when it does, it’s best to pay attention. 

Keith heads off to settle in before sunrise, and Shiro rouses himself reluctantly. He’d gotten maybe a few hours of sleep at the table, which certainly wasn’t enough, or even the most comfortable. His back and neck are killing him. 

But it will have to be enough, because they need to take advantage of the early morning. Lance’s nose is best in his chupacabra form, and they have a limited window in which to utilize it before humans start flooding the park for the day. 

He leaves Pidge to sleep at the table and rouses Lance. The chupacabra looks about like how Shiro feels, and even the few hours of extra rest don’t seem to have done him much good based on the dark lines under his eyes. Shiro wouldn’t be surprised to find he’d had a few bad dreams that had kept him from a proper rest. But he dresses and is ready to go by the time Shiro finishes scribbling up a note for Pidge and Hunk regarding his whereabouts, and follows Shiro out the door almost eagerly, desperate for a distraction.

They reach Arusian Park again just as dawn starts to slip over the city, close to six thirty in the morning. The park looks almost strange in the early dawn light, mostly in dim grays with the first early touches of sunlight lighting the treetops. It’s hard to believe they were here only a few hours ago. It feels so different from the oppressive darkness of midnight, and the danger feels far less real with the first rays of dawn. 

It does mean they need to be careful about visibility. Fortunately, the timing works perfectly in their favor. Visitors won’t start to show up for a few more hours, and most tours and rentals for the facilities don’t even open until ten. There are early-morning joggers around, but most of the popular paths are farther from the lake and won’t come too close to them. 

As long as the humans keep their distance, Lance can transform. If anyone catches sight of them, between the distance and the low morning visibility, they’ll just assume Shiro happens to be walking a very large breed of dog near the lakeside. 

Unfortunately, it’s about the only thing that works well in their favor. By the time they get close to the area of the murder, Lance is frowning even in his humanoid form, and by the time they reach the little observation alcove, he seems almost as agitated as Keith had been. 

“This is...this is  _ weird,”  _ he mutters, circling the pavement and the benches with undisguised anxiousness. “Oooh, I don’t like this. This is wrong.”

Shiro doesn’t disagree with him. He paces cautiously around the pavement, crouching low to get a good look at the stone and the grass bordering it. He doesn’t see a trace of blood, or anything else the corpses might have left behind. Visually, it’s like the murders never even happened. 

But that doesn’t quite explain Lance’s agitation, or Keith’s from earlier. “You’ve seen me dispose of bodies before,” he points out. “And clean up crime scenes. Why is this different?”

“I don’t smell  _ anything,”  _ Lance says immediately. “There are smells from the work you do. It’s not like this.”

“Maybe it’s too faint for you to pick up in that form?” Shiro suggests carefully. 

“Maybe.” Lance glances around nervously, waits for the all clear from Shiro, and slinks behind a bush to discreetly transform. He sniffs over every inch of the observation alcove, the benches, the grass around them, and the nearby bushes with increased frustration, ears flattening the longer he’s at it. 

Shiro gives him a good ten minutes to paw around the area, keeping a wary eye out for watchers, but eventually he has to give Lance a warning hiss to change back. By now dawn has truly risen, lighting the world around them in soft morning gold, and even distant joggers are going to start noticing Shiro’s ‘pet dog’ has an awful lot of spikes and a very strange tail. 

“Anything?” he asks, after Lance slips behind the bush again to change back.

Lance shakes his head in frustration. “There’s nothing. There’s literally  _ nothing,  _ Shiro. I don’t think you get how weird that is, because you’re just human, but the smells are gone. Like,  _ gone  _ gone. No residue. With as much blood as there was last night, there should be  _ something  _ still lingering, even faint.”

Shiro frowns. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all,” Lance agrees. “I can’t even smell Hunk’s barf anymore, that’s totally gone too. If I didn’t see it with my own eyes last night, I’d think there was never a murder at all.” He shudders. “No wonder Keith was freaked out by it. It’s  _ wrong. _ ”

“But there has to be something,” Shiro insists, frowning. “Blood doesn’t clean out that quickly and that perfectly. Not without some high grade chemicals and a lot of scrubbing.”

“I don’t smell any of that other stuff either,” Lance confirms. “And I’d know if I smelled it, I would recognize it from your other jobs. This place is as clean as it gets.” He shivers again. “This is really spooky. What could do that? Ghosts? The crossroads?”

Shiro shakes his head slowly. “No. The crossroads wouldn’t have need for this kind of ritual to begin with. Lotor could probably instantly clean the mess up if somebody bargained for it, but if somebody is already messing around with blood rituals, they’re looking for power they control. Owing the crossroads would just take that away from them. And ghosts couldn’t do anything like this, I don’t think.” 

“So what  _ could  _ do something like this?” Lance asks, eyes wide. 

“The only thing I can think of is some  _ very  _ hefty sorcery,” Shiro says, voice grim. “The bodies disappeared within a ten to fifteen minute window, near a dozen vampires. The only thing that could remove the corpses  _ and  _ any traces of blood so completely blood-feeding cryptids can’t sense it anymore is magic.” 

“Oh,” Lance says meekly. “That’s not good.”

No. It isn’t. Magic was one of the harder things for Shiro to counteract when it was used offensively, mostly because there were a lot less ways for a layman to fight it. There were charms that could be used to protect against specific kinds of spells, and certain kinds of magic had explicit rules that could put the caster at a disadvantage. But anyone who had the power to teleport all evidence of a ritual away was operating on a level that Shiro’s not sure he can counter without a  _ lot  _ of preparation, and he’s not sure they have that kind of time. 

“It’s worse than that,” Shiro says, staring at the scene of the crime, now devoid of any evidence at all. “If this happened tonight, then there’s a possibility  _ other  _ murders have happened that we never caught word of. Pidge estimated that the ritual was going to be  _ big,  _ based on the number of runes used. A big blood ritual needs a big body count, and we don’t know how far along that count even is.”

Lance looks horrified at the prospect. “Oh,” he says again, after a long moment, his voice very small. “This is...this is gonna be a bad one, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Shiro says quietly. “It is.”

Lance glances at the empty scene of the murder, takes a long, searching sniff, and shudders. 

* * *

Hours later, the two of them walk through Shiro’s front door, exhausted and defeated. They’d spent another hour and a half scouring the park, hunting for any sign or clue of anything that might have happened there last night, and found nothing. Shiro had been all for rushing straight back to the apartment to get back into his research, and it was only Lance’s insistent badgering that made him stop for breakfast. 

“If you don’t eat at all, you’re gonna pass out, and you won’t save anybody,” Lance insists. 

Now, Shiro carries the crumpled wrapper for a hasty breakfast sandwich and an empty cup of coffee to the kitchen to throw away. He barely makes it a step into the room before Pidge all but ambushes him, throwing her voice to yell triumphantly almost directly in his ear from six feet away, “Summoning!”

Shiro is used to this enough to  _ not  _ jump ten feet in the air out of reflex. It’s a skill he’d learned through his Covenant training, and gained a greater tolerance for through exposure to a bogeyman roommate for the past few months. “Summoning?” he asks wearily, staring at her in confusion.

“I got dad’s notes from mom,” Pidge says. “And cross-referenced some of the symbols on the bodies against it. Pretty sure the ritual is a  _ summoning  _ ritual. For some kind of…” Pidge scratches her head with her multi-jointed hands, eyeing her laptop notes. “Uh, reptile god? I’m not sure that’s right—”

But Shiro curses, and massages his temples with his thumbs at the headache born of sudden realization. “No,” he says after a moment. “That’s right. Damn it. We’re dealing with a snake cult. I should have seen it from the beginning.”

“A snake cult?” Lance asks, as he trails into the room after them, and plucks a container of pig’s blood from the fridge. “That sounds fake.”

“They’re real,” Shiro says with a sigh. “And they’re really composed of  _ real  _ idiots, who think summoning snake gods into existence is a great way to gain power.”

“What about snake gods?” Hunk asks, stumbling into the kitchen with a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. He’s wearing glasses instead of his usual contacts, having clearly just rolled out of bed. “Ugh. Morning, everyone.”

“You should go back to sleep,” Shiro says. “You were up all night, and you only got a few hours of rest…”

Hunk makes an awful face, and his snakes writhe around his head with animal agitation. “I keep seeing the bodies when I sleep,” he admits, blunt and to the point. “Especially the gorgon. I don't think I could sleep more if I wanted to, so I may as well hear this thing about snake gods.” 

Shiro gives him a deeply sympathetic look. They’ve all seen awful things while helping him on the job, but this one is particularly gruesome, and apparently difficult for everyone to process. “Fair enough.”

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts, and figure out how exactly to explain such a strange concept to begin with. “Okay,” he says finally. “You guys are familiar with the concept of other dimensions.”

“Sure,” Hunk says immediately. “Multiverse theory has been discussed for a while.”

“Plus that Slav guy goes on about them all the time,” Pidge adds, with a grimace. She’d met with the eccentric researcher a few times since the crossroads incident to pick his brain on magic and world theory. Even for someone as smart as Pidge, understanding Slav could be a... _ challenge.  _

“Right,” Shiro drawls. “Well, he could probably give a way more scientifically accurate description of this, but the layman’s version is, dimensions are set up in a few different directions. The ones that are more...I don’t know how to explain it. Lateral to ours? Have worlds with similar builds to our own and more humanoid creatures than not.” He gestures with both hands, drawing a flat line out in front of himself. “Within those dimensions are realities that might even be parallel to ours, with other you’s or me’s.”

The three of them nod in cautious understanding.

“On the vertical, you’ll have things that aren’t humanoid,” Shiro says, this time with a sharp up and down motion in front of himself. “But they function at more or less the same level as humanoids in terms of intelligence, empathy, and innovation.” 

“Okaaaay,” Lance says slowly. “Aaaand how do you know what direction you’re going in?”

Shiro shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never travelled dimensions or realities. I’ve read accounts of some Covenant agents leading excursions hundreds of years ago into the Underworld, and it might be based on alignments of planets or other things to create a rift in a very specific location for a very limited period of time. I don’t know how much of it is truth and how much is elaborate fiction. Personally, I’ve never left our Earth.” 

More’s the pity. There are certainly days it would be nice to get away from it all.

“What does this have to do with snake cults?” Pidge asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m getting to that,” Shiro says with a sigh. “When you go on the  _ diagonal— _ and again, I don’t know how you do that—things start getting weirder. A  _ lot  _ weirder. You’ll start running into non-humanoid things without empathy or intelligence, or things where the evolutionary track took a  _ really  _ horrible turn just for the hell of it.”

“Holy crap,” Hunk says. “Are we talking elder gods and that awful stuff? Cthulhu?” 

“If they exist, they’re certainly in that direction,” Shiro says bluntly. “Hopefully we won’t find the answer to that one. What you’ll find more  _ commonly— _ and what’s a lot closer to us on the diagonal scale—are snakes. Maybe four out of five times, snakes or snake-like beings.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Hunk says, and his own snakes writhe around his head gently in agreement. 

“If they were that sized, maybe not,” Shiro says, nodding to Hunk’s living hair. “More likely than not they’re the size of a bus and would eat you as soon as look at you.”

“Oh,” Hunk says. “That actually sounds bad after all.”

“Ditto,” Lance agrees.

“So why would anybody want to  _ summon  _ one of these big huge snakes?” Pidge asks in disbelief. 

Shiro shrugs tiredly. “There’s a belief that summoning some kind of snake god can grant the summoner a great deal of power, or a wish or desire of their choice.”

“Like a big scaly one-time crossroads deal?” Lance asks, disbelieving.

“Better,” Shiro says. “Assuming you live through the experience, you don’t owe the snake anything. A lot of religions, both cryptid and non, have notable snakes in their passages. Cryptid scholars think some of those snakes may actually have wormed their way here from other dimensions through happenstance—because remember, if we can get to them, they can get to us.” 

He sighs. “It’s not an entirely unfounded concept, either. The... _ substance  _ that splits worlds is a form of energy that’s so powerful even a little bit of it can fuel enormous spells or have an immense effect on the world it comes into. If you summon  _ anything  _ through a dimensional wall, they have to tunnel through it, which means that...quintessence membrane, I think Slav called it...gets stuck to the thing that bored through it. And snakes happen to have the perfect shape to slice an efficient hole through that quintessence membrane and take as much of that substance through as possible, without getting stuck part way on any extra limbs.”

Pidge’s eyes widen. “So it’s not really about the  _ snake,”  _ she says after a moment. “It’s about the raw quintessence from outside the dimension that the snake brings  _ with  _ it.”

“More or less,” Shiro says. “Although your standard cultists would probably argue otherwise, since it’s a part of their pseudo-religion. The snake brings a powerful form of energy, and energy can be fashioned into almost anything you can think of, as long as you know how to use it.”

“I’ll say,” Pidge says. “I wonder if my dad knows about this? That kind of inter-dimensional power could provide a source of clean energy for the whole world.”

Shiro shakes his head. “It’s a nice thought, but the risk is too big. Messing with dimensions is dangerous. And don’t forget,  _ summoning  _ anything across dimensions like this requires blood magic, often at the cost of not one but several lives. It’s not worth it.” 

Pidge grimaces. “Oh. Yeah. That’s true. It wouldn’t really be clean energy if it takes sacrifices to get it.”

“And it always will,” Shiro says. 

“So what you’re saying is we’ve got a bunch of crazy people trying to summon a big snake so they can get some kind of energy from another world to do…” Lance pauses. “Uh.  _ Something.  _ Which we don’t know about yet. Am I getting that right? Because that sounds really, really nuts.”

“That’s more or less the idea,” Shiro says with a sigh. “Cults in general are difficult to deal with, because they usually consist of power-hungry zealots, and they generally can’t be talked down. But most of the time snake cults are made of amateurs that don’t really know what they’re doing. They’re greedy, they want fast results to get what they desire, and they aren’t above killing people to obtain it...but most of the time they don’t really understand the runes or the rituals well enough to actually summon a snake god. It’s like giving a toddler a gun. People are going to get hurt, but it’s just as likely they’ll hurt themselves. And on the off chance they  _ are  _ successful in summoning a snake god, they usually don’t know how to contain it, and end up eaten before they can use the power they pulled through.”

“Oh,” Hunk says. “So, we’re  _ not  _ in a super lot of trouble?” He looks hopeful.

But Lance’s face falls. “No,” he says softly. “You said these guys have a sorcerer. That means this cult knows what it’s doing, right?”

Shiro nods grimly. “Exactly,” he says. “If they know enough magic to clean out the entire murder scene and leave no trace, we can safely assume they know enough about whatever ritual they’re doing to do it correctly. Which means we’re dealing with a snake cult that actually  _ will  _ summon a snake god of some kind, and more likely than not, actually knows how to bind it too. The question is ‘which one’ and ‘when’ more than anything else, unless we stop them.” 

Hunk’s eyes widen. “Wait.  _ Magic  _ cleaned the crime scene out last night?”

Pidge looks back and forth between everyone. “What about the crime scene? And what about magic users?”

“Right. Backing up a minute.” He explains everything they’ve found since the group had split up last night, catching Pidge and Hunk up to speed. “The real question,” Shiro concludes, “is  _ which  _ god they’re summoning.”

“Does it matter?” Hunk asks, confused. “Giant snake god sounds pretty bad no matter how you put it.”

“It matters,” Shiro answers. “Some are smaller and weaker than others and will bring in less of that dimensional membrane. On the flip side, it also means they’ll need less sacrifices, and they could have it sooner rather than later. Bigger snake gods mean a lot more deaths, but it also might give us more time to try and stall them.”

“Assuming last night’s kills weren’t close to the end already,” Lance points out. “You said they could have made other kills and disappeared them before we figured out. This could have been going on for weeks already.”

“That’s possible, but I don’t think it has,” Pidge says slowly, adjusting her glasses and returning her attention to her laptop. “Some of these runes indicate numbers. I still don’t understand the full context of the ritual or exactly which one it is yet, but I think different types of deaths have to happen in specific orders to get it to work. The gorgon had runes that I think mean ‘fifth death,’ and the man had ‘sixth death,’ if I’m translating it right.”

“So there’s been at least two other killings like this,” Hunk says miserably. “Assuming it’s been two people per killing. And we didn’t even know.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Shiro says. “We got lucky enough to catch this one, as bad as it is, and now we need to keep an eye out. Pidge, can you tell which snake god this is summoning?”

“Not yet,” Pidge says. “If there’s a specific name or something, I haven’t figured out how to translate it, and dad didn’t know. I’ll keep cross-referencing these photos against my dad’s notes, but there isn’t a way to match on photographs, so I have to do a lot of it by hand. It’s tedious. But…”

“But?” Shiro prompts, as Pidge’s expression grows dark.

“But,” Pidge says, “Whichever this one is...it’s  _ big.  _ Based on the general context of the other runes I’m seeing on both the bodies and the ritual circle, they’re not going for anything small. I think there’s a lot of sacrifices left. At least double what they currently have. Maybe more.” 

Shiro swears. Twelve victims or more for a summoning spell will mean one hell of a big snake god, and a lot of quintessence membrane in the hands of a powerful sorcerer. If they don’t manage to find and stop it in time, the devastation to Garrison City will be enormous. And Shiro knows how to kill a  _ lot  _ of things, but interdimensional snake creatures aren’t one of them. The odds he’ll die trying to put it down are very, very high. 

But more deaths also gives them more chances to find and put an end to the ritual  _ before  _ it happens. If they’re diligent, and very lucky, they might be able to put an end to this before the blood ritual’s power coalesces too far to stop. 

They just need someplace to start  _ looking  _ from. They might have a better idea of the enemy’s end goal, but they still have no idea how to find them.

“Okay,” Shiro says. “New angle, then. Pidge—did you find anything out about the victims?”

Pidge makes a face. “Sort of,” she says. “The gorgon’s still unknown—I checked in with Allura an hour ago and she doesn’t have a match yet. I did find the guy, though.” She flicks through a stack of papers and hands a freshly printed sheet to Shiro, with a picture of a driver’s license and several bullet-pointed facts on it. Lance leans over Shiro’s shoulder to take a look, while Hunk shares Pidge’s laptop screen. 

“Michael Jacobs, thirty years old, unmarried,” Pidge recites. “Worked as an accountant at some office job here in the city. Once I had a name I checked out his social media—his family is on the other side of the country and I don’t think he was seeing anyone, so he still hasn’t been reported missing. And here’s the real kicker—he won’t be for a while yet, because his twitter and facebook accounts are still active.”

Lance jerks his head up, surprised. “What? How?”

Pidge shrugs. “Not that hard to hack somebody’s social media if you know what you’re doing. If they still have his phone, boom, easy enough to post as Michael. It’s all pretty generic stuff—liking other posts, retweeting things here and there, complaints about work or thinking about needing a vacation soon.”

“They’re hiding that he’s dead,” Shiro says softly. “But also paving the way for when he drops off the face of social media for a while. If he disappears to go ‘find himself’ on a vacation for a month or two nobody will question it, and by the time they do, the snake god will have already been summoned.”

“That’s what I figured,” Pidge agrees grimly. 

“Well, how did he get nabbed to be a sacrifice to begin with?” Hunk asks. “Was he a cryptid sympathizer?”

“Hard to say, but I don’t think so,” Pidge says. “His social media feeds are as human vanilla as they come. I cross-referenced him everywhere against cryptid-friendly websites, but he’s not on any of them. He must’ve just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And where  _ was  _ that place?” Shiro asks. “Can we find that out?”

“Not easily,” Pidge says. “Seems like he was the quiet type to begin with, not super outgoing. Rather stay home with a book or video game than go out drinking or partying.”

“Which might have made him an ideal target,” Shiro says. “Single, quiet, unnoticed—unlikely anybody would realize he disappeared.”

“But if he’s not connected with the community, how would whoever was doing this have known about him?” Lance asks. 

“That’s what we’ll need to find out,” Shiro says. “This address on the driver’s license is current?”

“As far as I can tell,” Pidge says. 

“Good. Get me the address for his workplace as well. And see if you can figure out when he went missing. Just because he died last night doesn’t mean he was taken last night.”

“You’re gonna go check out his apartment?” Hunk asks. “And his job?”

“Yes. With the help of you two, if possible,” Shiro says, gesturing to both Hunk and Lance. “You might pick up some things I’d miss. If we can find the connection between him and this cult, that’s a start.”

“I’ll keep working the ritual angle,” Pidge adds, after scribbling down the work address for Shiro on the page she’d given him earlier. “See if I can figure out what we’re up against.”

“Good,” Shiro says. “Then let’s get to it.” If they’re lucky, this will break the case. If they’re lucky, they’ll be able to prevent a bloodbath. 

He really  _ hopes  _ they’re that lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I also mention the final chapters are gonna be _particularly_ long?


	26. Homo sapiens: Part Two

“We don’t get  _ safe.  _ We just get to choose what kind of dangerous we go after.”   
—Sam Taylor,  _ The Most Holy and Harrowing Pilgrimage _

**_Running ragged, all over the place_ **

Luck is not, unfortunately, on their side. 

The first day of the hunt is a bust. Shiro breaks into Michael’s apartment, but there are no signs of any kind of struggle. Hunk and Lance, with their extra senses, still don’t pick out anything unusual in the place, and it looks as human as they come to Shiro. His office provides nothing useful either, other than the fact that he had apparently put in for two week’s vacation time unexpectedly. 

Pidge tries to find out where Michael stopped and the digital imposter started, but can’t determine anything solid. She covertly monitors his feeds, trying to back-trace updates to get an idea of where “he” is posting from, but has no success. Try as they might, Michael appears to be a dead end, at least for the time being.

So, grudgingly pushed back to square one, they do what they can to keep their eyes out and find a new clue.

Allura spreads the word through all of her cryptid channels, discreetly asking trusted members of the community for information on missing people or word of unusual rituals. Just because Florona had reported a death to Allura doesn’t mean other members of the community hadn’t seen something, and fled instead of calling it in. She doesn’t hear back, but at least the community will be more alert, which could make all the difference.

The Marmora Society also steps in to take a more active role in the investigation. The way Keith tells it, Kolivan had not been happy about the murder victims and evidence disappearing almost literally from under his nose, and had taken it as a personal offense to the Society’s efficiency. 

But Kolivan also understood the danger for what it was. Even if the murders were covered up, they would lead to something potentially deadly, and  _ that  _ might potentially lead to an invasion of Covenant agents. Either way, the Marmora Society lost, so Kolivan had dedicated nearly all of his active resources to finding and containing whoever was doing this.

They do make  _ some  _ progress, between all of their resources. After three days, Allura finally discovers the identity of the murdered gorgon. She was Marci Williams, twenty-five, who had finally been identified by a concerned Madhura who hadn’t seen her in his shop for her customary order of baked goods. 

From there, Pidge and Allura are able to pull more information together. Marci Williams had, like Michael, been unmarried, and her family had lived outside the city. She hadn’t been as reclusive as their other victim, but had been a spontaneous individual by all accounts, flitting between jobs, hobbies and social groups constantly. It explained why nobody knew her enough to identify her or report her missing. Her social media, Pidge grimly reported, was  _ also  _ still active, posting spontaneous ‘road trip photos’ that were all of monuments and landscapes and conveniently avoided selfies. As far as anyone knew, she’d decided to drive out to California for the hell of it. 

Shiro can’t stand how callously such a free spirit had been murdered. And the worst of it is, they can’t even tell the families of  _ either  _ victim they’ll never see their loved ones again. If whoever is doing this is smart enough to keep monitoring social media, they could be monitoring their relatives, too. The last thing Shiro wants is to guarantee those grieving families will also become victims to ensure silence.

But the killers  _ had  _ made one mistake with Marci. Spontaneous as she was, she had a sweet tooth, and had been a regular at a Madhura-run dessert cafe. It wasn’t uncommon for her to order specialty cakes—with some extra, gorgon-preferred flavoring—and pick them up the next day. She’d made her order as always, but never came for it. 

Which finally gave Shiro a timeline. Marci had been active on her own as late as four in the afternoon, when she ordered her treats, but had been dead by midnight. It meant the killers either worked fast, or they’d earmarked the girl for sacrifice and had been prepared to take her that night. If Shiro had to guess, it was the latter, and it’s not hard to imagine the same thing applied to Michael.

If they could figure out  _ what  _ had made them earmarked for murder, that would help them predict the next ones.

But they can’t find the connection. And Shiro tries  _ everything.  _ The two hadn’t been in the same professions, social circles, or species. They hadn’t come from the same states, or had the same temperament. They hadn’t even lived in the same area of the city. Even the Aeslin mice can’t find a pattern between them, when Shiro presents the problem to them, and the mice usually have a knack for spotting details their deities miss. 

The only thing the two of them have in common is that nobody has missed them yet, especially with their killers maintaining their activity online. But there are  _ thousands  _ of people just like them in the city. If that’s the only thing to go on, any of them could be the next victim. Hell, even Shiro’s alias ‘Ryou’ would be a potential candidate. Cancel his next set of self-defense classes, and nobody would notice he was gone for a few weeks. 

He’s got to figure this out. So he keeps digging deeper, trying to find the connection, the clue, day after day after day. He devotes himself to it, right up until exactly one week after the last murder, when his phone lights up with Kolivan’s number at ten minutes to midnight in the middle of another research session.

Shiro blinks at that. Kolivan usually works through Keith, when giving them information. Over the past few years he’s certainly come to trust Shiro a lot more, but it doesn’t make them friends by any means. But Keith is right across the kitchen table, running through the information on the victims for the dozenth time with a scowl on his face, and his phone is still in his pocket.

Shiro’s heart drops into his stomach. Whatever this is, it can’t be good. He answers with trepidation. “Kolivan?”

Keith’s head jerks up from the pages on the table with surprise. Around the table Pidge, Hunk and Lance also look up, equally intrigued.

“You need to come to the Thaldycon Convention Center immediately,” Kolivan says, without preamble. “There have been another pair of murders.”

Shiro curses. “We’re on our way,” he says. 

“We?”

“The rest of my friends are here,” Shiro says. “We’ll be—”

“Do not bring Keith,” Kolivan says shortly. “One of the victims was one of our own. It may upset him.”

Shiro’s heart sinks further. “You know he won’t be left behind,” he says. Keith is already scowling at him across the table, obviously able to listen in on the conversation with his superior hearing. “Can you at least tell us who it was? So we can mentally prepare?”

Kolivan sighs. “I would prefer he didn’t come, but if he insists, I suppose I can’t stop him. He’s always been a stubborn one.” Silence for a moment. Then, “It was Antok.”

Keith breathes in sharply, eyes wide. The others, unable to listen in on the conversation, give him concerned looks.

“Hurry,” Kolivan says, voice sharp. “We are watching the scene and documenting what we can, but I do not know how long it will last.” And the line goes dead.

“Everything okay?” Hunk asks, still watching Keith with concern.

“There was another ritual,” Shiro says curtly. “Kolivan found it. One of the victims was a member of the Marmora Society.”

_ “Oh,”  _ Lance says, sympathetic, as he turns to Keith. “They’re like family to you, right?”

“Something like that,” Keith says, a little stiffly. 

“You don’t have to come, Keith—”

“I’m going,” Keith says. There’s a warning edge to his tone, and he reflexively bares his fangs in a defensive display. “I have to see.”

“Alright,” Shiro agrees. He’s not sure it’s a good idea, but it’s not really his call to make. “But let me know if you feel like you need to leave.”

“I’m going too,” Lance says. He doesn’t look happy about it, but he  _ does  _ look determined. “I might spot something a bunch of vampires miss.”

“I’ll stay here,” Pidge says. “Text me any photos you get over the secure network I rigged up, and I can start translating whatever you find.”

“I’ll stay with Pidge,” Hunk decides with a sigh. “I was kinda useless at the last one, but maybe I can help Pidge. I’ve been working with her on a program to match the details in the photos to her dad’s notes…”

“Good idea,” Shiro says. “Give Allura a call, and tell her to keep the cops away from the area like last time.”

“Can do,” Hunk promises, relieved. 

Shiro has a feeling neither of them want to see another gruesome murder either, but he can hardly blame either of them for that. He’d rather  _ not  _ get Pidge involved more than necessary, anyway. The lecture Colleen Holt had given him a few days ago had probably been one of the most terrifying things he’d ever endured, even if she  _ had  _ stated how proud she was of both of them after. 

It doesn’t take long to get to the Thaldycon Convention Center, which is probably for the best. Keith sits in the front passenger seat in a stony silence, regardless of if Shiro or Lance try to engage him in conversation. Shiro doesn’t know how well Keith got along with Antok, but he’s obviously uncomfortable with the news that a fellow vampire died to the thing they failed to find. 

Shiro is guilty about it too, if he’s honest. He’d gotten the Marmora Society involved in this to begin with. But for him, at least the Society are professional acquaintances at best. For Keith, they’d been teachers, maybe even family, and people who were like him. The loss would inevitably be more painful.

When they finally reach the convention center, it’s mostly dark, other than the emergency lights that always light the front area. One of the shadows detaches itself from the front of the building and glides forward to meet them. Shiro tenses, but Keith says dully, “It’s just Thace.” A moment later, the shadow resolves itself as a familiar vampire, and taps on the window.

“Kolivan has instructed me to take you directly there,” he says curtly. “Hurry.”

Shiro is unsurprised to find the elite team of vampires have already found their way into the building and disabled any alarms that might have called the local authorities. Thace leads them to a side door used by the maintenance team at the convention center, which is already unlocked, and lets himself in. This one is guarded by another vampire, although Shiro doesn’t know this one by name, who nods curtly to them as they pass her position. 

What Shiro  _ is  _ surprised by is that Thace doesn’t lead them to any of the big, open rooms in the building. The main areas a visitor might see are clear of any murders. Instead, he takes them to a smaller room, the kind that can be booked for meetings or panels, with retractable dividers to split larger rooms if needed. 

Just like last time, the moment Thace opens the door Shiro is blasted by the strong scent of blood. He grits his teeth and stubbornly breathes through his nose, trying to acclimate himself to the scent as fast as possible. Even so, Thace gives him an almost sympathetic look, before stating curtly, “Be careful where you step.”

The warning is not unfounded. Also like last time, there’s blood everywhere, spattered all over the linoleum flooring and even on the lower walls. The section closest to the door is relatively clean, giving them a place to stand safely, and there are a few other clear spots in the room. But the bulk of the space is dominated by the corpses in the middle of the room, and the ritual circle surrounding them.

Shiro gets one look at the victims, and immediately freezes, stomach flip-flopping dangerously. It’s much easier to make out their faces this time in the fluorescent lighting of the conference room. More importantly, he recognizes not one body, as anticipated, but  _ both  _ of them. The one farther from them is the vampire Antok, a large, surprisingly bulky individual who had always been rather gruff and silent in Shiro’s few encounters with him. The second, closer to them, is unmistakably Florona, her unnaturally reddish-orange hair spilled out around her like a halo and blending almost seamlessly with the still-glistening blood around her body. 

“Damn it,” he whispers. They’d tried to get her to safety. Had she already been marked for death the night they’d spoken to her? Or was she just incredibly unlucky?

Keith and Lance filter in behind him and catch sight of the bodies. Keith goes still—unnaturally,  _ perfectly  _ still, on a level no human could ever obtain—and stares at the bodies. Lance wrinkles his nose at the blood splashed everywhere, disgusted by the violence more than the blood itself, but the moment he recognizes Florona he chokes.

“Is...is that…” he gags, horrified.

“I think so,” Shiro says quietly.

“But she wasn’t—I mean she was  _ fine  _ the other day—it’s—she’s my  _ friend,”  _ Lance says helplessly. 

“I know, buddy,” Shiro says, equally helpless. Nothing about these kinds of jobs are pleasant, but it’s always easier with strangers. The hardest thing in the world is to accept that your friends and loved ones aren’t immune to the awful things that could happen, just because they had proximity to you. 

“You know the other victim?” Kolivan asks, striding over, with Ulaz and Thace at his back. 

Lance flinches at the word ‘victim,’ and shakes his head rapidly, hiding his face with one hand. “I think I gotta...I gotta go outside for a minute,” Lance says meekly. His throat sounds tight, like he’s trying hard to not crack in front of the other vampires. 

Not that it would matter. Based on the sympathetic look Keith gives Lance, and the way the other three vampires studiously ignore him, they can hear everything on a much deeper level than Shiro can.

“That’s fine,” Shiro says, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “But stay within sight of at least one of Kolivan’s guards, okay? I don’t want  _ anyone  _ alone right now.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Lance says distantly. 

“We can talk after, buddy,” Shiro promises. “If you want.”

“I think I might need to,” Lance agrees, before slipping out the door. Kolivan, to his credit, pokes his head outside and gestures for one of his team to follow Lance, and Shiro gives him a thankful nod of gratitude.

“You can leave too if you want, Keith,” Shiro adds, nudging him gently. Keith is still unnaturally still, and stares at the circle and the two victims with a far-away look on his face.

“No,” Keith says, shaking his head as though clearing it. “No way. Now I want whoever did this  _ really  _ bad. I’m helping. End of story.”

“Then let us not waste time,” Kolivan says. “The other victim?”

“A siren named Florona,” Shiro says, swallowing. He forces back any closeness he has to the situation, trying to put on the mask of a professional ex-Covenant hunter and wear it properly. He  _ can’t  _ afford to miss anything because of distractions now, not with another pair of murders and another ritual closer to summoning a snake god. “She was friends with Lance. I think she lived in the city, but visited fully metamorphosed family in Nalquod Lake. She called in the report on the murders last week.”

“This cannot be a coincidence,” Ulaz says.

“No,” Shiro agrees. “I don’t think it can. How did you find this set of killings? And when did Antok go missing?”

“He didn’t,” Kolivan says. “As of this sundown, I gave him his orders for new leads to follow up on this case. Antok was a good agent—I could trust him to follow through on tasks I set. He followed up around ten thirty this evening to notify me he’d caught a potential break in the case and was going in to investigate further. When he didn’t report in again after half an hour, as is protocol, I traced him here. He was already dead.”

Shiro frowns. “Why here? Was there anything unusual about this convention center related to the case?”

“Not that I knew of, until now,” Kolivan says, gesturing bitterly at the ritual symbols painted in blood on the floor. “I was puzzled that Antok was here, instead of following up on the possible leads in the underground I originally planned to have him check. But he was always a trustworthy agent. I’ve known him for decades. If there was something here he thought worth investigating, I trusted his judgement.”

Shiro’s frown grows deeper, and he turns his attention to the two bodies on the floor. Why would Antok come  _ here?  _ The convention center does have a connection to the underground network of cryptid homes. It makes it easier to leech services like WiFi, water and electricity from big public sources, where nobody would notice a little bit trickling off to a few private homes. It might make it simpler for whoever was doing this to travel unseen. But nothing stands out as notable here. 

His gaze slips from Antok to Florona. Why, of all the possible candidates, was  _ she  _ here? What was the connection she and Antok had? Kolivan hadn’t even known her. The only thing was…

“Kolivan,” Shiro says slowly. “Was Antok one of the team you brought when you were going to clean up the last murder?”

“He was,” Kolivan says slowly.

“And did he help you search the area after, when the evidence disappeared?”

“He did,” Kolivan says. “But he saw nothing, just like the rest of us.”

“No,” Keith says. “That’s not true. He said he never found the killer. He did mention seeing a few late-night walkers, though.”

“We all saw those,” Ulaz says. “Cryptids wander at night. A few unusual humans with no self-preservation will as well. None saw us.”

“But I think Antok saw our killer,” Shiro says, as grim realization slides into place. “Damn it! We didn’t see it before, because we didn’t know the first victims. The people being killed are  _ witnesses.”  _

Everyone freezes. Shiro feels uncomfortably like he’s surrounded by statues, staring at him unreadably. Then Kolivan says with a warning growl, “Antok was no traitor. He was a good member of the Society and has supported it for decades. He would  _ never  _ support these brazen murders.”

“I’m not saying he would,” Shiro says. “But I’m saying it is possible he saw something he didn’t recognize as relevant to the case. Our killer is cleaning up loose ends, and using it to benefit their ritual.” 

“That means any of us could be the next target,” Keith says, with wide-eyed realization. “ _ We’re  _ all witnesses too.”

“All the more reason to solve this as soon as possible,” Shiro says grimly. “Which means we need to get to work. We document as much as we can now, just in case. Afterwards—we’re staking this out. A cult will have more than one person working behind the scenes, but if we’re lucky we can catch one of them.”

Kolivan’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I think that is an excellent plan,” he says. “Rest assured, if we do catch one, I will personally guarantee their containment...and that they will talk.”

That sounds uncomfortably like torture, but Shiro’s not going to argue. There’s too much at stake here to let moral quandaries stop him now. Besides, the Marmora Society has lost one of their own, and vampires do not take kindly to injustices against their people. Kolivan has every right to protect and avenge his own, and Shiro, a human, has no right to intervene unless he goes too far. 

“Let’s get to work,” is all Shiro says in agreement. 

Work isn’t easy, mostly because none of them can get close to the bodies without tracking blood everywhere and disturbing the scene. Still, Shiro has Keith get to work snapping pictures of the ritual circle and the runes from as good an angle as he can get, while he studies the bodies as well as he can from his position by the door.

Even several feet away, there’s no doubt this ritual is a little different from the last. Like before, both bodies are laid out on their backs and stripped, with Florona’s feet by Antok’s head, and his feet by hers. Both bodies are carved with symbols like last time, although at his distance Shiro can’t tell if they’re the same or not. But this time, their hands are outstretched in the middle, fingers folded to clasp each other, and some kind of spike pierces their hands and pins them to the floor. Neither body is split open from sternum to navel, either. 

“It’s escalating,” Shiro mutters under his breath. “This isn’t the exact same ritual as last time.”

Ulaz frowns at him. “Does that mean two different cults?”

“Or the same cult, and the ritual builds the closer it gets to the summoning,” Shiro says. He sighs in frustration. “I wish I could get closer to the bodies without disturbing anything.”

“Lance could,” Keith says. Shiro gives him a quizzical look, and Keith points to the clean wall near them, and draws an imaginary line up the wall and to the ceiling over the corpses’ heads. “He’s the only one who can stick to walls.”

Shiro’s jaw sets grimly. He doesn’t want to have to do this, but they need those pictures. “Fine. Someone go get him, please.”

Lance arrives in short order, trailed by two of Kolivan’s team. He still looks shaken, and his voice wavers a little when he asks, “They said you needed me?” But he asks anyway, and the fact that he came back so quickly says a lot.

“Yes. I’m sorry to ask this of you, Lance, but we need photos of the bodies,” Shiro says, raising his phone. Lance flinches at the word ‘bodies,’ and Shiro gives him a deeply sympathetic look. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but we need clean photos up close so Pidge can try to decode those symbols.”

Lance glances nervously in the direction of the bodies, then at the ceiling. He sighs shakily, but nods. “Okay. I’m not gonna sleep for a week after this, but I can do that.”

“Thank you, Lance,” Shiro says. “I promise we’re going to do everything we can to stop this.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna be right there to help,” Lance says, with a voice that shifts more to a growl as he transforms. 

He doesn’t slip fully into his chupacabra form, instead holding it somewhere in the middle so that he can most effectively Spider-man all over the walls and ceilings while still having opposable thumbs to operate the phone camera. Spines burst from the back of his head and shoulders, his fingers take on a pointed, elongated quality with joints in odd places, and his brown skin starts to mottle with the first signs of the spot and stripe pattern he has as a quadruped. But he’s mostly recognizable, his tail hasn’t grown in yet, and his jaw and teeth haven’t realigned so that he can still talk understandably. 

“Gimme the phone,” he says, and Shiro dutifully hands it over. Lance is careful not to cut him with his claw-like, partially transformed nails as he accepts the phone. Then he swarms up the wall and across the ceiling like something out of a comic book, until he’s over the corpses. He crouches on the ceiling, adjusts the camera, and starts snapping photos.

“Be sure to get close ups of the spike,” Shiro says. “Especially if it has any symbols on it. The symbols on their bodies, too.”

Lance swallows, but adjusts the phone to do as ordered. “This feels wrong,” he says after a moment. “I used to flirt with Florona. Now I’m taking creepy pictures of her without clothes  _ or  _ her permission. This feels really sketchy.” 

“I know it feels weird,” Shiro says. “But you’re not doing it to be creepy. If we can figure out those symbols we might be able to find a way to counteract the ritual. This is to prevent any more victims like her.”

“I know,” Lance says, and to his credit he doesn’t stop snapping pictures. “Not gonna stop me from feeling really dirty for a while. For a  _ lot  _ of reasons.” He glances around the blood-spattered room with obvious disgust.

“This whole thing is really sick,” Keith agrees. “We’ve got to stop it soon.” 

“And we’re going to,” Shiro says, eyes narrowed. 

When Lance has documented what he can, he scuttles back across the wall and hands the phone over to Shiro, melding back into a fully humanoid form as he does. “I hope those work,” Lance says, looking vaguely green, “because I don’t know how much longer I can do that.”

“It should be plenty. I’ll send them to Pidge and Hunk now,” Shiro says. “They can get to work on decoding everything while we set up our stakeout.”

“Stakeout?”

“We’re waiting for whoever did this to show up tonight for cleanup,” Shiro says grimly. “And we’re going to catch them in the act, this time.”

Lance’s eyes narrow. “Good. I’m in. I’m  _ totally  _ in.”

“As are the rest of us,” Kolivan agrees. “Tell me, how do you plan to organize this?”

“We station people at each major exit, including the one that goes to the underground,” Shiro says. “Make sure each team has at least two people. Nobody goes alone for this. We  _ know  _ they can take down a single adult vampire with no fuss, so everyone has backup.”

“Agreed,” Kolivan says with a nod. 

“We also set up in this hallway,” Shiro says, pointing to the door. “A team in the room across the hall. Another in the show hall below, watching the windows.” He gestures to the full bank of windows in the room, where a panelist could look over the open hall below and whatever activities were there for large events. “If they get in somehow, we’ll have teams on-hand to subdue them here. One way or another, we get them.”

“No one in the room itself?” Kolivan gestures around them, and to the bodies.

“Not safe. Only Lance could successfully hide in here without being seen right away on the ceiling, and I’m not leaving him alone. No furniture or dark corners for vampires to hide behind.” 

Lance nods shakily. “I really do not want to be in here alone with the dead people,” he adds meekly. 

“And you won’t be.” Shiro gestures to himself. “Me, Keith and Lance will take the room across the hall. If somebody’s good enough to get this far, we’ll have three different skillsets to draw on to subdue them. Kolivan, you spread the rest of your agents out at the entrances. Fair?”

“I will see to it at once,” Kolivan agrees, and strides off to do exactly that, with Ulaz and Thace at his heels.

“Let’s dig in for the night,” Shiro says, gesturing to Keith and Lance. 

They follow after him, carefully closing the door to the sacrifice room, and entering the conference room across the hall. There’s a tiny window in the door to watch through if needed, but it’s also visible. So Keith and Lance sit by the door and listen instead, with Lance in his chupacabra form and settled catloaf against the wall, one doglike ear cocked. Shiro trusts that either of them will pick up on an intruder before he will, but he also expects to be there to help bring the enemy down if it comes to it. 

And they wait.

It had been quarter to one before they settled into their stakeout, but Shiro hopes it won’t be long. The last set of murders had been cleaned up only a few hours after they’d been committed, and they’re closing in on that time now. 

They burn through fifteen minutes, then twenty. At the half hour mark, Keith and Lance silently shake their heads when Shiro inquires under his breath if anything has happened yet. He texts Kolivan and learns everything is quiet on the Marmora Society’s end as well. 

But at the forty-five minute mark, both Keith and Lance suddenly tense.  _ Footsteps,  _ Keith mouths in the gloom, and Lance rises to all four clawed feet, teeth bared in a silent snarl. 

Shiro eases his way to his feet, and peeks carefully through the little window. Amazingly, there  _ is  _ a figure out there, a dark shadow barely visible in the emergency lights in the hallway. He moves unerringly for the door the murders were made in, and as he passes underneath the emergency lights Shiro catches sight of a shaved head, prominent, bushy eyebrows and sideburns, and an odd goatee. 

This is it. This is their killer.

The man has just cracked the door open to the murder room when Shiro, Lance and Keith burst out of their stakeout room behind him, weapons, teeth and claws at the ready. The man whirls in surprise, leaping out of the emergency lights, and the shadows flicker around him as he does. Then he turns and bolts back down the hallway without making so much as a sound.

Shiro spares a glance at the murder room—he can just barely see the spatters of blood through the now open door and the thick, wavering darkness—and then he turns and charges after their killer. Lance and Keith, both pursuit hunters built for high bursts of speed, are already far ahead of him, with Lance’s claws clattering loudly on the linoleum flooring and Keith making not a sound. 

They whip around the first corner, and near a staircase. The killer vaults over the side down to the next floor and hurtles around a corner. Keith makes to do the same, while Lance slithers over the side to climb down the wall. 

Shiro yells after them warningly, “Don’t let him split us up!” The last thing he needs is for Keith or Lance to be taken as new sacrifices.

Keith curses, but cuts his speed obligingly, allowing Shiro and Lance to keep up with him. They whip around the corner, just in time to see their target disappearing down another stairwell at the far end of the hall. 

Shiro pours on the speed, charging down the hallway as fast as he can. He’s significantly faster than most human beings, but his vampire and chupacabra friends still manage to peel ahead of him easily, only cutting their speed to make sure he stays within view. They make it to the end of the hallway in seconds, and Keith and Shiro leap down several stairs at a time to round the corner in the stairwell, while Lance ricochets off the walls to make his turn.

Their killer is gone.

“Which way?” Shiro yells. They  _ can’t  _ lose this guy, but he could have gone down the next flight on the stairwell to the parking garage, or down the hallway that leads to the door to the main lobby.

“Not sure,” Keith says, as Lance noses around like a bloodhound, sniffing madly. “I don’t smell him anymore.”

“At all?” Shiro asks.

Lance makes a sharp, preternatural yowling noise that sends a chill up Shiro’s spine, and charges down the hallway towards the alcove. Shiro curses, but follows after him, gesturing for Keith to follow. Whatever trail Lance has, they’ll have to stay with him. 

But when they burst into the alcove, they nearly run into Kolivan and Thace, charging for their doors with actual swords out and at the ready. They negate the swings before they can accidentally decapitate anyone, and the five of them stare at each other in confusion.

“Did you see him? Did he come this way?” Shiro asks urgently.

“See him?” Kolivan asks, frowning. “Did you find our intruder?”

“Yes, but he disappeared on us,” Keith says. “In the stairwell. I lost his scent. Lance came this way.”

“No one has come through this entrance besides ourselves,” Kolivan says shortly. 

Shiro swears. “He must’ve gone the other way. Hurry!” 

Lance makes a sharp whining noise, ears flattened, but dutifully follows them back. Kolivan and Thace follow them this time, ready to provide backup, calling ahead to let Ulaz and Regris at the parking garage exit know to expect an attacker.

But by the time they get down the stairs, the only ones they meet are Ulaz and Regris themselves, who dutifully report that nobody had come past them. 

Shiro curses. “Check the whole building,” he orders Kolivan. “My team is heading back to the murders.” He has a bad feeling they’ve been played, but he hopes his gut is wrong.

It isn’t. They make it back to the ritual room in less than two minutes, but by then it’s already too late. The room is as clean as if no deaths had ever happened there, and all of the evidence is gone once again.

* * *

_ “All  _ of it was gone?” Pidge asks wearily, over a steaming mug of coffee, more than an hour later.

“All of it,” Shiro repeats tiredly, clutching his own mug of Hunk-brewed coffee in his hands. Shiro had headed back to his place long enough to pick up Pidge, Hunk, and their most recent research materials, before heading straight over to Allura’s penthouse to discuss the latest news. It’s past three in the morning by now, but Allura had insisted on being updated on any big changes in the case, no matter the time of day.

By now all of them are exhausted, even Keith. Hunk had brewed them a large batch of coffee to keep most of them going while Shiro, Lance and Keith updated them on the recent events, and the rest of them listened attentively. 

“Even the smells were gone like last time,” Lance says bitterly. “They only distracted us away for a few minutes, but it was enough.”

“Kolivan and the others are still there, sweeping the area in case they find a trace of him,” Keith says. “They’ll call if they find anything. I don’t think they’re gonna have any luck, though.”

“What do you think happened, though?” Allura asks. “Did this person you saw double back on you somehow while you went the wrong way, to cast whatever spell was needed to erase the evidence?”

“Maybe,” Shiro says. “I don’t see how he could have, though. We didn’t lose him for long. Maybe he had an accomplice.” He sighs and rubs his face. “Either way, the stakeout was a bust.”

“Not a complete one,” Coran points out. “You did get more photographic evidence. And you got a look at this fellow’s face. Even if he wasn’t your sorcerer, it sounds like he knew exactly where to go, which makes him an accomplice.”

Pidge nods. “I’ve already got traces running for anyone with the description you gave, through any database I can think of. You said he was human, right?”

“He looked human, but that’s hardly enough to go by,” Shiro says. “What did you two think?”

“He smelled human,” Keith says.

But Lance hesitates. “I’m not sure if he is,” he says. “I don’t like how we just lost his smell in the middle of the stairwell.”

“And then you picked the wrong direction,” Keith adds, a touch bitterly. “We might have caught him otherwise.”

“I didn’t see  _ you  _ picking a direction!” Lance snaps hotly, quite literally bristling. “Don’t pin this on me!”

_ “Enough!”  _ Shiro says, and the two of them immediately snap their mouths shut, glancing at him guiltily. “Pointing fingers isn’t going to help anyone. Lance did his best. Our opponent was obviously ready for this.”

“The thing is, I didn’t pick a direction at  _ random,”  _ Lance admits after a moment. “There was another strong scent there, like somebody had just passed through. It didn’t smell human. I wondered if maybe he was like a chupacabra or something. Able to change into something else.”

“A therianthrope?” Shiro asks, musing. “I suppose it’s possible. Do they smell different in another form?”

“Yes,” Keith says immediately. “Lance always smells a little like reptile, but it’s way stronger and different when he changes.” Lance sticks a tongue out at him.

“Did you recognize the other smell?”

Lance shakes his head. “It was familiar. I almost had it. Kinda like having a word on the tip of your tongue but you can’t quite get it. Like that, but for scents.” He rubs his nose in frustration. “I wish I could remember it already!”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’ll come to you easier if you don’t try to force it,” Shiro says. “Either way, we have a sorcerer or possibly a sorcerer’s accomplice who may or may not be able to transform into something else. It’s not a lot to go on, but I’m confident I would recognize him if I saw him again.”

“Same,” both Keith and Lance agree.

“Well, even if you didn’t catch the guy, the pictures you sent back were sort of helpful,” Hunk says. He grimaces. “If really awful to look at.”

“He threw up twice,” Pidge informs them, although she looks rather green herself, which is an odd sight with her grayish bogeyman complexion. 

“It’s gross and sad,” Hunk says, without a trace of shame. “And there’s  _ way  _ too much blood to be normal. That’s not ‘my friends eating dinner’ blood, that’s murder blood. It’s  _ awful.” _

“If we could get on topic…” Allura says, rather pale, and pressing her wings defensively close to herself.

“Right. Sorry. Anyway, you were right, Shiro, there’s a lot of differences,” Hunk says. “For starters, the runes on both the bodies and the floor were a lot clearer and more elaborate. They were also bigger than before.”

“And that means?”

“Escalation,” Pidge says, adjusting her glasses. “The ritual is ramping up, as far as I can tell. I don’t think this was just a case of whoever it was getting better at doing this. This was deliberate.”

Shiro thinks back to the surgical precision of the cuts on the first victims from last week, and nods in agreement. “I think you’re right.”

“I found some runes indicating ‘seventh death’ and ‘eight death,’ respectively,” Pidge adds. “So these ones are following on the last ones, if I’m reading this right. That means we haven’t missed any murders over the past week, at least.”

“It also means we might have a timeline,” Hunk chimes in. “A weekly pattern, maybe. Rituals thrive on patterns, right?”

“They can,” Shiro agrees. “And that sounds about right. If this assumption is correct, it means we only have one week before the next victims are found.”

“There must be something else we can learn from this,” Allura says, frustrated. “Perhaps a visual would help.” She sweeps to her feet, curling her wings close, and strides over to the elaborate table with the map of the city protected by a glass surface. Grabbing a pink pen, she marks an ‘x’ over first the convention center, and then Arusian Park near the lake. “These are the two deaths we know of so far. What else?”

“The victims lived here, here, here, and here,” Pidge reports, grabbing a green pen and marking each one in turn. The little X’s are scattered all over the city, and don’t provide any sort of feasible pattern.

“There’s at least two sets of victims we don’t know about,” Keith says. “We can’t mark those since we don’t know where they happened, though, or it might have given us a pattern.”

“Shiro thinks the victims might have also been witnesses,” Lance adds. “Antok and F...Florona both saw last week’s. Which probably means the gorgon and human from last week saw something the week before.”

Allura frowns. “Saw, but did not report?”

“And why were these two the only victims, then?” Coran asks. “All of you saw the murders last time. If it’s a matter of silencing you, every one of you should have died tonight.”

“I think we didn’t see enough,” Shiro says.

Hunk stares. “All that blood wasn’t  _ enough?”  _ he asks, incredulous.

“What I mean is, we found the murders, but had absolutely nothing to connect them to anyone,” Shiro says. “Whoever is doing this is in the community, because they’re killing cryptids. They know we can’t make a big deal of it, or we’ll call in outside trouble. Antok and Florona must have seen something else that  _ could  _ connect them—or at the very least, our killer  _ thought  _ they did. Both of them were also convenient single targets, while no one in our group has been alone since that night.”

“By that logic, the three of you have now witnessed a connection between the murders and an accomplice, and are now the next best options as sacrifices,” Allura says softly, glancing first at Lance, then Keith, and finally Shiro.

Lance gulps. “Oh. Great.”

“We’ll be fine, as long as we keep using a buddy system,” Shiro says. “And I mean that. Nobody goes anywhere alone now. Period.” He gives everyone in the room a pointed look. Everyone nods solemnly back.

“Anything else, Pidge?” Allura asks, after a long moment.

“Um...not much yet. Still a lot to translate. I think the spike is either bone or ivory—probably bone, since it’s a blood ritual,” Pidge says. “It has symbols, but I’m having trouble decoding those. I think some of the other runes are directions to some dimension or other, if Shiro’s talk about laterals and diagonals and all that is true, which means they’re starting to focus the ritual on summoning from a certain place.”

“Maybe we can get Slav on it,” Shiro muses. “Assuming we can track him down in time, he might be our best shot at figuring out which snake god they’re trying to summon.”

“You certainly aren’t doing that right now,” Coran says authoritatively. “All of you are exhausted. I know you’re keen to find this cult, but those synapses aren’t going to fire right at all if you keep working away with no rest.”

“Coran is right,” Allura agrees. “You all look completely spent. Why don’t you spend the night here in your guest rooms? We can take up the discussion again tomorrow morning over breakfast.”

“I like the sound of breakfast,” Hunk chimes in immediately.

Shiro is loathe to take a break, not after everything that had happened that night. The killer had slipped out from under him, and the thought of  _ resting  _ after such a loss makes him frustrated and guilty. Not to mention he’ll be seeing those bodies tonight in his dreams, bloodied, dead eyed, and accusing him silently of failing to save them.

But Coran and Allura are right, too. He won’t save anyone if he kills himself of exhaustion. He couldn’t protect Florona, and he hadn’t known to protect Antok. But if he’s going to make sure there are no more victims, he needs to be at his best.

“That sounds good to me,” Shiro says. “Thank you, Allura. I think we’ll take you up on that offer tonight.”

And tomorrow, they’re going to do everything they can to  _ catch  _ this bastard.

* * *

The next four days are not as productive as Shiro would like.

With the new angles they’d gleaned from the last murder, they focus on the directions they can take: decoding the new runes, and looking for their mysterious escaped accomplice. Unfortunately, both directions don’t take them very far. Pidge grudgingly admits after several days that a lot of the runes carved into the skin of the latest victims don’t even seem to be in her father’s notes, which means she doesn’t have a chance of decoding them. And no matter what database or word-of-mouth network they dig through, they can’t find their killer anywhere. 

Shiro has no intention of giving up easily. He’s taken to frequenting cryptid hot spots now, playing on Lance’s hunch that their killer might not be human. One of the Marmora vampires had done a sketch based on his descriptions of the accomplice, which is reasonably accurate, enough for anyone to recognize the man if they saw him. He shows it around to anyone in the community, trying to find out if anyone knows the man. There’s always the chance that a cryptid would automatically lie to him to protect one of ‘their own’ from a Shirogane, but he gets the feeling most of the people he asks are being honest with him and genuinely don’t know. 

He’s not about to give up trying, though. On the fifth day after the second set of murders, perilously close to a future pair of sacrifices, he has another venue he can try. One that guarantees to be productive regardless of whether or not he gets information on the mission.

“I’m going to the flea market,” he says, poking his head in the living room that afternoon. “Who wants to come with?”

To his surprise, only Lance is there, playing a video game on the Switch. He visibly brightens at the invitation. “I could go for some shopping,” he says cheerfully. “I hate being stuck indoors like this.”

“This isn’t a trip to the mall, Lance,” Shiro reminds him. “I’m looking for information brokers or routewitches. They might have something on our escaped murderer.” People with connections to both cryptid and non-cryptid communities frequently made appearances in transient spaces like markets and pop-up shops, where they could be found by those in the know and disappear quickly if they needed to.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna buy a billion knives and swords and things there too,” Lance points out with a pout. 

“They never sell swords there. It’s usually machetes,” Shiro corrects. “And anyway, I use those to stay alive. We can’t all be made of spikes.”

Lance grins at him. “I guess you’re just unlucky that way.”

Lance isn’t wrong though. Shiro  _ would  _ be using the flea market as an opportunity to restock for supplies while he could. Flea markets and swap meets were excellent ways to purchase things that would be considered... _ questionable... _ through normal retail stores. Lye, bleach, saltpeter, toxic spices and herbs, and vast assortments of things that could be weaponized tended to put people on watchlists at the rate at which Shiro purchased them. But all those things could be found in places like flea markets, and nobody bothered to pay attention to one’s face. Sales were final, in cash, not recorded, and didn’t need a name or ID. 

“Well, I’m in, so I can be your backup,” Lance continues. “I’m just glad for any chance to go outside. This buddy system thing sucks.”

“Speaking of—where are Pidge and Hunk?” Shiro asks, frowning.

“Hunk’s got classes,” Lance says. “Pidge went with him to be his buddy again.” 

Which made sense. Hunk couldn’t  _ not  _ go to his college courses, but he couldn’t be alone either. They’d worked out that Pidge was a ‘cousin’ of his visiting from out of state, to give her an excuse to go with him. From the way they told it, nobody minded having a fifteen year old sit in on engineering lectures, especially one that seemed to actually understand the bulk of the material.

“Let me just grab a snack for the road!” Lance says enthusiastically, tossing aside his controller and making a beeline for Hunk’s room.

“It had better not still be alive,” Shiro warns. “I don’t want more blood on my upholstery. Besides, people might see you.” 

_ “Aw,”  _ Lance pouts again. “You’re really no fun today. Fine, I’ll have one of the mice when I get back.” 

The Unilu Flea Market is set up on the border of the commercial and warehouse districts of Garrison City, and opens once a month for all buyers and sellers. The sellers set up inside one of the converted warehouses and spill out into the fenced-in parking lot, displaying their wares on folding tables and blankets, some accentuating their areas with signs and temporary tents. For a mere dollar fifty admission, a diligent eye, and a little bit of patience, almost anything a person could need or want could be found here. 

It was an ideal place for both supplies and information. Shiro had found the place mere weeks after moving to Garrison, and had been a fairly regular visitor since. Some of the vendors could be a little shady, but nobody looked twice at him, and his family would be unlikely to find him there. There was a strange sort of comfort in anonymity. 

Today’s visit is at least somewhat productive. Shiro finds some lye, a few rare herbs that can be used in several counter-charms and antitoxins, and a variety of knives, all of which make it into the bag he’d brought for just this purpose. Lance rolls his eyes at Shiro’s purchases, but finds a few things of his own that excite him—including a bargain bin full of old games and vintage titles for only a dollar or two apiece, which he immediately hoovers up.

“Pidge is gonna  _ flip  _ when she sees these tonight,” Lance says gleefully, as he tucks the old game set and discounted game discs away into his own backpack. “They had  _ Killbot Phantasm 1!  _ Do you know how rare that is?”

“I’m guessing a lot,” Shiro says, looking around for telltale signs of information brokers, or maybe a routewitch if he’s lucky. 

Lance scowls at him. “I still can’t believe you spent all your childhood learning to stab things and none of it playing any good video games,” he says. “It’s a real tragedy, y’know?”

“I didn’t spend  _ all  _ my childhood learning to stab things,” Shiro says. “Sometimes I learned to shoot things, too.”

Lance gives him a sideways look.

“There were other things too,” Shiro says. “I promise. I had...survival training?”

“Which meant?”

“Well, usually my family would drop me in the middle of the woods somewhere and expect me to find my way back,” Shiro says absently. “It was actually kind of fun. I was always the first one back, no matter where they started me.”

Lance makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t believe me and the others are gonna have to teach you how to be a proper kid at _almost_ _twenty five,”_ he complains. “When this is over, you’re gonna play _Killbot Phantasm,_ and me and Pidge can help if you get stuck.”

“Alright,” Shiro says agreeably. Aside from learning to murder sentient creatures, he doesn’t think his childhood was  _ that  _ bad personally, but everyone else always seemed shocked every time he dropped tidbits of his old life when he wasn’t paying attention. If making him play a video game makes them happy...then fine. Whatever it takes.

A few of Shiro’s regular information brokers are at the flea market today, but unfortunately none of them can break the case for him. None of them recognize the sketch of the man Shiro had seen that night, but when he promises triple the usual finder’s fee if they hear anything, they promise to give him a call if something turns up. They’ve got ears in places Shiro never will, and with a hefty financial gain, at least one or two will dig hard for an answer. It’s better than nothing.

Shiro had been hoping to catch at least one routewitch at the flea market as well—there were a few of them who flitted through the area, hunting for items steeped in their preferred form of payment, distance. He’d been able to work with one or two of them in the past to talk to the deceased or predict the next location for a kill. Unfortunately, the ones he knew were trustworthy didn’t seem to be around this month, which meant they were probably traveling to build up their power again. 

That’s unfortunate, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He’ll talk to Allura later, and see if she can find a trustworthy routewitch in the area who can help with this case. Involving more people means putting more people at risk, but they’re running out of time before a lot of people will be at risk anyway. It’s time to take the gamble.

“I’ve got everything I need,” Shiro tells Lance, as they weave carefully through the crowds and the tables set up haphazardly everywhere.

“Let’s just take a quick second to browse the stalls outside?” Lance pleads. “We haven’t even looked at those yet.”

“A  _ quick  _ second,” Shiro warns, but at Lance’s obvious relief, he can’t help but smile a little. Lance is easily the one going the most crazy from the ‘buddy system’ rule. Of all of them, he enjoys wandering around the city the most, and is by far the most extraverted. It’s not easy for him to convince Hunk, Pidge or even Keith to do exploratory wandering or finding places with a lot of people to talk to, though, so he usually ends up stuck indoors for the day. Giving him a little bit of time out and around isn’t too much to ask. 

So they dig through the stalls outside for a little while, browsing collections of all manner of junk for hidden gems. Shiro finds a decent machete at a gardening stand and adds it to his bag, while Lance has a grand old time digging through odds and ends on assorted tables. 

“Think Allura would like something sparkly?” Lance asks brightly.

“I think Allura isn’t a magpie,” Shiro says dryly. “And you should really stop flirting with her so much, she thinks it’s annoying.”

Lance mulls that one over for all of five seconds, before his face lights up as he catches sight of a farmstand selling vegetables and live animals. “Oh,  _ nice!  _ I haven’t had rabbit in a long time. And I didn’t get my snack earlier. Hold up.”

Shiro leaves him to it. Pig and chicken blood is easy enough to get from a butcher, but if Lance wants any variety in his diet, he has to hunt it himself or get it from an outside source like this. Shiro can hardly begrudge him wanting something else for dinner. 

He keeps Lance in sight as he browses up and down the tables, looking for anything else interesting while his friend negotiates for his meal. Nothing catches his interest on the tables. After about five minutes he glances around—and is shocked to see the killer from the convention center at the far corner of the parking lot, near the exit.

_ No way.  _ After five days of searching, the man had come to him.

“Lance!” he hollers over his shoulder, refusing to take his eyes off the man. “Lance, time to go!”

But Lance doesn’t answer. Shiro risks a quick glance over his shoulder, and realizes he’d wandered farther from Lance’s stall than he’d realized. Between the crowds, the chatter, and the heated negotiation Lance is clearly in based on his hand gestures, it was clear his friend hadn’t heard him.

_ “Lance!”  _ he barks, but while a few people glance at him curiously, nobody at the farm stall looks his way twice. He curses under his breath, and turns back to his target.

Lance might not have heard him, but the man clearly  _ had.  _ He gives Shiro one startled look, and immediately makes his way to the exit.

Shiro swears again, and makes a hasty decision. He doesn’t have time to go back for Lance—if he does, he’s going to lose this bastard. There’s too many people for Lance to track him easily, especially when he can’t transform. 

He  _ cannot  _ lose this man. If it means breaking his own buddy rule—well, he’d mostly insisted on that for his friends, anyway. 

He leaves Lance behind, and weaves his way between the crowds and the tables for the exit.

The killer reaches it first, and ducks nimbly through the entrance and to the left, towards the warehouse district proper. By the time Shiro reaches the exit, he’s disappeared around the corner of one of the buildings. Shiro breaks into a jog to keep up, and rounds the corner just in time to see his target disappearing into a decrepit warehouse. 

There’s no one around anymore. That means no witnesses, but that works for Shiro as much as it works for his opponent. Eyes narrowed, he slips one of his sidearms from a hidden holster, loosens the throwing knives in his wrist sheathes, and steps into the building.

It’s not as dark as he’d expected in the warehouse. Late-afternoon sunlight filters through many of the old broken windows, leaving bright splotches on the ground and over a few abandoned crates of unspecified merchandise. Dust motes swirl through the air, agitated from the recent passage of his quarry. 

And there, at the far end of the warehouse, is the killer. Shiro raises his gun at the man immediately, and snaps, “Keeps your hands visible, and don’t move.”

The man freezes, then slowly raises his hands. He remains perfectly silent.

“Good,” Shiro says, keeping his weapon trained firmly on the killer. “You’re connected to at least two ritual murders. I have some questions for you. Answer truthfully and this doesn’t have to get difficult.”

He certainly hopes the man doesn’t make it difficult. Above all else, he can’t afford to kill him. They need the information he has, which means if he  _ does  _ fight back, Shiro has to subdue him nonlethally. It’s a task that might prove difficult, given their killer has managed to overtake a vampire and a gorgon with presumably no difficulty. 

The killer remains silent. 

But another shadow detaches itself from a stack of nearby crates, and says curtly, “I think not.  _ Stop.”  _

And Shiro—stops.

Literally stops. He’s trained since he was young to keep a gun steady, but now he can’t move at all. 

_ What?  _

“Drop the gun,” the shadow orders. This time, Shiro feels the words press on his brain as much as he hears them. To his utter shock, his fingers neatly click the safety into place and release the weapon, allowing it to clatter harmlessly to the ground at his feet.

He hadn’t done that.  _ He hadn’t done that.  _ What the hell was going on? A chill runs up his spine, but to his horror, he finds he can’t even start breathing fast of his own accord. Whoever— _ whatever— _ this shadow is, it has control of him somehow. 

No. No.  _ No.  _ With horrifying realization, Shiro understands exactly how these ritualists managed to subdue such dangerous cryptids so easily.

The figure steps forward into one of the patches of late afternoon light. To Shiro’s surprise, it’s an older woman, with long white hair that hangs messily down around her face, and heavy looking cultist robes. To his even greater surprise, he feels like he knows her.  _ Superior,  _ his brain insists.  _ Teacher. Trainer. Friend.  _

No. No, that’s not right at all. He’s never seen her before in his life. 

_ Teacher. Trainer. Friend. Master,  _ his brain insists.

No!

“You’ve done a fine job, leading him here, Raht,” the woman says. Her voice is harsh and raspy sounding, crackling with age. 

“Thank you, mistress,” the killer says immediately, coming to kneel behind her obediently. “I am honored to have your approval.”

“Of course you are,” she says, obviously uncaring of the man’s awe and adoration. 

“And you,” she adds, fixating her gaze on Shiro.  _ Teacher. Master. Mistress,  _ his brain immediately shrieks, and he almost,  _ almost  _ believes it’s real. “You’ve been causing me a lot of trouble for months. This meeting has been a long time coming.”

_ Months?  _ The cult only caught his attention a few weeks ago. Unless…

_ Master. _

_ Mistress.  _

_ GALRA. _

“Very good,” she says. “I thought you might figure it out quickly.” 

But he hadn’t said anything. He literally  _ couldn’t.  _ His jaw is clenched shut, and he can’t move any part of his body under his own power. He can’t even express anything with his face. 

Which means she’s in his head.  _ She’s in his head,  _ and he can’t move. Panic surges through his mind, a cacophony of feelings and the same words over and over,  _ nononono  _ and  _ getoutgetoutGETOUTOF MY HEAD— _

—But underneath it a cool, calculated, trained part of him analyzes. Telepathy, and compulsion that seems to be affecting both him and the accomplice still kneeling at her feet. He keeps trying to believe she’s  _ familyfriendteachertrainermastermisstress _ , he can feel his mind already building a backstory around her existence, trying to slot her into a space that was previously already filled. He very nearly believes it. Only years of training remind him it’s not true, and even then it’s so  _ hard.  _

_ There’s only one thing in our world that can do this. Johrlac. Cuckoos.  _

_ God. I’m dead.  _

“You’re  _ very  _ clever,” the woman says. “I wish I had access to you years ago. You would have made a  _ fascinating  _ project. Yes, you’re correct. I’m a Johrlac. Or a  _ cuckoo,  _ as your lot so insultingly call us.” She gives him a cold, indifferent look.

He can’t moan in fear, or react physically in any meaningful way; her lock on him is too tight. But anguish and raw fright slither through his brain, and he can  _ feel  _ her mental urgings encouraging it, and it swirls through his head like a storm.

Johrlac are the worst kind of ambush predators. They don’t hunt for food, or out of self defense, like most self-respecting cryptids. They  _ unmake  _ their prey from the inside out. Their projective telepathy allows them to insert themselves into a victim’s lives, drain them of their resources, shatter them into mental pieces, and walk away from the chaos laughing with amusement. They did everything they did for  _ sport,  _ and the race as a whole was certifiably insane. 

The Covenant hadn’t even known they existed for centuries. When they did discover them, a shoot on sight philosophy had immediately been enacted. It was one of the few cases where Shiro still  _ vehemently  _ agreed with the policy of gunning down a sentient being on sight, because a johrlac could and would sow destruction in their wake and never shed a tear for the bodies they left behind and the lives they ruined. They could never be reasoned with. 

A johrlac could easily have been at the murder scenes, and used their projective telepathy to convince people they weren’t. A johrlac could probably pick witnesses from one murder and convince them to come to another location to be slaughtered themselves, like Antok heading to the convention center for no reason. It made a disgusting amount of sense.

But something is wrong with this one. Cuckoos didn’t have much physical variation; both males and females were pale, dark haired, blue eyed, and looked like they could be related. But this one is almost inverted, with darker, almost grayish skin, white hair, and eyes that gleam yellow instead of icy blue. Why was this one different?

“The price of evolution, I’m afraid,” she says, answering his mental question as easily as if he’d spoken out loud. “Life changes, and becomes more powerful.”

Evolution. The other Galra servants Shiro and his friends had defeated had hinted at experimentation with cryptid abilities. If this was the witch that had encouraged it…

“Very clever,” the johrlac says. “A little  _ too  _ clever, I think. No wonder you’ve been interrupting preparations for months. Come here.”

Shiro tries to resist, but her mental claws dig into his brain and leave him no choice in the matter. He takes staggering steps forward, dragging his feet and accidentally kicking his gun away in the process. But he does exactly what he’s told, and the very realization galls him.

“Resistant, as well,” the johrlac muses. “Not unsurprising for the Shirogane clan, I suppose. That lot has bred for elite combat for centuries. I’m letting you keep your awareness to some degree, of course, but I’m impressed with how much your mind is holding its own.” 

She sneers at him. “Perhaps the Shirogane have a dirty little secret in their ancient lineage that grants them a little resistance to mental manipulation. Wouldn’t your vaunted Covenant love  _ that?  _ It is intriguing though. Perhaps even useful.” She considers him thoughtfully. __

The absolute truth that she’s  _ sisterteachermastermistressfriend  _ presses harder at his brain. She looks different, for a moment,  _ flickering  _ to something he knows, has memories of passing back two decades, has laughed with and cried with—

_ Then how did she get here? Why would she run from the Covenant too? Why are we meeting here? Why? How?  _ An insistent little voice in his mind fights back, and pushes against that truth, and he sees the empty space where a person he thought he knew used to be and sees around the patch on his mind to what’s  _ really there— _

“Stubborn,” the johrlac snaps. “You’ve always been  _ stubborn,  _ Shirogane. Do you know how long you’ve been interrupting my work? This city is the last part of the ritual. It should have been consecrated in blood  _ months  _ ago. And yet you’ve bested all of my most loyal servants. My schedule is behind by  _ months,  _ and the ritual is taking far longer than it should because of you.”

Consecrated in blood? 

_ They wanted blood on a grand scale,  _ Shiro realizes, underneath the insistent barrage of thoughts that aren’t his, or are his but are twisted against him.  _ The deaths Macidus and Sendak were preparing were just to lay the groundwork for something bigger.  _

The thought is absolutely horrifying. He’d  _ known  _ there was a bigger picture. He’d never realized  _ how  _ big. 

“You’ve cost me time,” she snaps. “And you cost me  _ power. _ Losing the anima mundi set me back even further. I think, for the trouble you’ve caused me, you owe me something, don’t you?”

_ Losing the anima mundi... _ he struggles to wrench away from her when he realizes he’s  _ met  _ her before. The voice that had spoken through Lotor, at the end, harsh and livid.  _ The anima mundi is mine. I worked too hard to claim it. I will not relinquish it.  _

_ You were at the center of all of it,  _ he rages in his head, accusing and terrified both, knowing she’ll hear him.  _ You caused all of it. All this suffering is  _ your  _ fault!  _

“And I could cause more,” she says, “In retribution for all the trouble you’ve caused me. I could put a little seed in your head, right now. You’d never know it was there, not without another telepath. It will wait until all your precious friends are together, and then  _ bloom,  _ and you won’t know them. You’ll kill all of them. It would be easy.” 

She forces an image into his head, of him doing exactly that. He can feel it as easily as if it was a true memory. No longer recognizing his friends, cutting them down in a hazy fever dream, expertly utilizing their weaknesses to kill them. They beg and plead and ask him what’s wrong and why is he  _ doing  _ this to them, they’re his  _ friends,  _ Shiro what’s  _ wrong— _

He can’t whimper out loud, but he whimpers in his head when she finally stops the false memories, trembling in his own mind because his body still won’t listen to him.  _ Please no please no please no please please please please— _

“Entertaining, but inefficient,” the johrlac says. “Your friends are hardly a danger without you there to direct them, anyway. No, for the trouble you’ve caused me, you owe me  _ much  _ more than a few moments of entertainment.”

She doesn’t need to encourage dread in his mind. It floods him in a torrent, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

“I wish I’d found you years ago for a project,” she says, with a cold voice and a cold expression. “It would have saved me a lot of time. But I think you’ll be a fascinating study. Maybe you’ll even save me a few weeks.” 

_ Won’t help,  _ he insists weakly, in his own mind. It’s ineffectual. It’s impossible to put on a mask of confidence in front of something that can tear it off easily and see the frightened, weak thing behind it. 

“You won’t have a choice in the matter,” she says. “You won’t have a mind of your own for much longer.” 

_ No— _

But her eyes flash, and for the first time he can move again as his knees buckle and he crashes to the ground. The johrlac stands over him, and the servant steps closer to tear off his backpack and haul him up. 

Then her eyes flash again, and he remembers nothing else for a long time after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a lot of your comments...a lot of you have been waiting for this moment!


	27. Homo sapiens: Part Three

“It must be nice to have the sort of life where a few days of radio silence doesn’t mean that something has gone horrifically wrong.”   
—Alice Price-Healy,  _ Chaos Choreography  _

**_A secure apartment building, resuming narration with the assistance of Keith Kogane_ **

When Keith wakes from his sun coma that evening, he expects more of the same from the last five nights since the murders at the convention center. He expects researching leads, Pidge giving them the latest updates on ritual things, and accompanying Shiro as he tries his cryptid contacts to find their killer.

The last thing on Earth he expects is to wander out into the kitchen, still muddled in his sun daze, to meet the three solemn faces of his friends-turned-family, and be told that Shiro is  _ missing.  _

It doesn’t quite register for him at first. He must not understand. It’s hard to make things  _ click  _ when he first wakes up, when the sun is still out. 

“What?” he asks eventually, blinking at them stupidly. 

“Shiro’s...Shiro’s gone. He disappeared this afternoon,” Hunk repeats.

The repetition is all he needs to know this isn’t some terrible, stupid prank. Just like that Keith’s mind is clear. Fight or flight kicks in with the vampire equivalent of an adrenaline rush, and suddenly  _ everything  _ is clearer and his senses are overtuned to the point when it nearly hurts. He can hear every heartbeat in the room like always, but over that he can hear the creak of muscle, the grinding of a jaw setting, the tiniest rasp of skin on cloth with the tiniest twitches of movement. He can smell more than just blood and unique character scents—he can pick up on the chemicals in each of them that mean  _ fear  _ and  _ sadness  _ and  _ helplessness.  _

Most of all, he knows there’s only three other people in their entire apartment. No Shiro sounds. No Shiro smells, apart from the ones that always linger here. Nothing. Not here. 

_ Gone. Disappeared.  _

“What….what  _ happened?  _ Why?  _ How?”  _ Keith asks, alarmed. 

“It’s my fault,” Lance says. His voice is so low it’s barely even a whisper, but Keith hears it loud as a clarion call. He stares at his feet as he explains. “Shiro wanted to go to the Unilu Flea Market. I went as his buddy. We were shopping and—and I stopped to barter a snack, and it was only a minute or two I swear, but when I looked up again he was just gone.” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“And you just  _ left  _ him there?” Keith explodes, baring his teeth instinctively and stomping forward in a rush. 

Lance doesn’t even attempt to defend himself, but Hunk does. All he has to do is put himself between the two, but Keith jerks to a halt immediately, wary of getting too close to those snakes. They’re agitated from Hunk’s distress, and their individual heartbeats pitter-patter a mile a minute, like a tiny hum around Hunk’s skull. 

“Easy, there,” Hunk says. “Everyone just  _ cool down.  _ We’re all on the same page and we all want to find Shiro.”

Keith forces himself to take a deep breath, but it’s hard. He’s furious at Lance and he’s scared for Shiro and—

—and Shiro is  _ missing.  _ Shiro is the only person who ever bothered to give a  _ damn  _ about him and he’s missing. He’s  _ never  _ gone missing like this before. He could already be dead. He could—

_ Stop. Stop it. No. He’s alive. Shiro’s the toughest human you’ve ever met. He’ll never go down without a fight. He can hang on until you find him. But you have to work with everyone else to do that.  _

Keith grimaces, but after a long moment, he nods.

“I didn’t leave him behind,” Lance says meekly. “The moment I realized he wasn’t there, I looked. I called Coran and Allura to let them know what happened, and then I looked everywhere. I didn’t see him in the crowds. Coran came to back me up and then we looked through some of the warehouses next door. We, um. We found his backpack. The one he brought to carry stuff he bought back in. And his phone was there. But no Shiro.”

He gestures to the side, where the dark gray backpack Shiro uses for supply runs sits on the kitchen table. It’s opened, and a bunch of knives, a machete, and several containers of chemicals are scattered around it. The remains of a familiar phone are spread over the table, crushed beyond repair.

Shiro’s things. But no Shiro.

“We dug through it in case maybe there was a clue of some kind,” Pidge explains. “I didn’t see anything, though. No fingerprints or anything we can use. Obviously they made sure we can’t trace his phone—I guess they didn’t want to hold on to it, since Shiro’s always been paranoid about a social media presence, so they don’t have to fake post for him. Lance says it smells a little like the guy you chased at the convention center—”

Keith hisses through his teeth and immediately slips around Hunk and Lance, picking up the backpack and burying his nose in it. Most of the scents are ones he associates with Shiro—gun oil, steel, strange herbs, the shampoo he uses, and his own personal scent that everything living has. Other scents are faint, things the backpack might have picked up while Shiro wandered through crowded stalls and tables—food traces, other shampoos and perfumes from people he’d passed, trace scents from other kinds of cryptids.

But he  _ does  _ recognize the scent the human they’d chased had given off. It’s stronger than most—the killer hadn’t just passed by Shiro, he’d handled the backpack. The backpack that had been left behind when Shiro had disappeared.

“Lance is right,” Keith rasps, his voice harsh and cutting in his throat. “It’s the same smell. The killer has Shiro.”

_ The killer has Shiro.  _

_ Oh, God.  _

It was bad enough to think of Shiro kidnapped by  _ anyone.  _ He has a lot of enemies in Garrison; there were a lot of people who would want to see him dead. He’d made a better name for himself in the past few years, between associating with Allura and working hard to improve his image, but far too many cryptids in the community still thought of him as Covenant. Far too many cryptids wouldn’t mind if he just disappeared.

But to think the man they were chasing had him…

Keith’s stomach churns. He hasn’t vomited in  _ years,  _ since his vampiric traits came in and he transitioned to an all-blood diet, he still feels like he’s going to be sick. 

People who disappeared in this case wound up as bloody corpses in a dark ritual. They’d already speculated that witnesses were more likely to disappear, and that he, Shiro, and Lance were prime targets for the next round. And Shiro is the one taking the most active role in stopping whoever was doing this. 

The next ritual murder is probably going to happen in just two nights, and Shiro is  _ gone,  _ and Keith is  _ terrified  _ that if they find the next set of bodies, one of them is going to be Shiro’s lifeless corpse. 

No. No.  _ No.  _ He won’t let that happen. He  _ refuses.  _ He’s going to find Shiro. He’s  _ going  _ to.

“I’m going back to that warehouse,” Keith says. “Where is it?”

“We already looked, Keith,” Pidge says. “Promise. After Hunk and I got out of his classes Lance called us over and we all tore the place apart—”

“I’m  _ going,”  _ Keith repeats, with a warning snarl and deliberately bared teeth, “to that warehouse.  _ Where is it?”  _

“I’ll take you there,” Lance says, to the surprise of everyone. He looks enormously subdued—if he was in his other form, Keith figures his tail would be tucked between his legs and his ears flat. He practically  _ oozes  _ misery, both through scent and sound. 

“Keith might catch something we didn’t,” Lance adds, at Hunk’s and Pidge’s startled looks. “And it’s my fault, so I owe him.”

“Fine,” Pidge says after a moment. “I’m gonna stay here and try to figure out Slav’s most recent address riddle. If he can figure out the ritual stuff, maybe we can use it to find Shiro.”

“I’ll help,” Hunk says. “The faster we get it done the better.”

“Good. Whatever. Let’s go,” Keith says shortly. He’s not going to believe the warehouse is a dead end until he sees it with his own eyes and smells it with his own nose. Maybe there’s still a chance. Maybe he can find something they didn’t. Maybe Shiro’s not as lost as they thought.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. He clings to that maybe desperately, because he’s too scared of the thought that they might have already lost _.  _

“Right. Uh, let me just…” Lance digs through a few of the small drawers in Shiro’s desk nearby, until he fishes out the spare keys to Shiro’s car. “He had the keys on him,” Lance explains meekly. “I had to leave the car behind in the lot. We can get it on the way back.”

“Keith!” Pidge calls, as the two of them head for the door. “Don’t forget to call the Marmora Society. You and Shiro were the ones that had their contact information…”

“Right,” Keith says grimly. The Marmora Society  _ definitely  _ needs to know about this. If anyone has a chance of tracking down Shiro, it’ll be Kolivan and his followers. 

Please, let  _ someone  _ be able to find him.  _ Please.  _

The sun is still setting when they get outside, and even with his sunglasses, Keith squints against the harsh brightness of it. He hates this time of day. He feels almost blind in it, and he sunburns in less than ten minutes if he doesn’t cover up. Kolivan says thirty years from how he’ll have matured enough that it’s not nearly so painful, and he can even be conscious and outside without it hurting so badly, but that’s a long time from now.

Lance, at least, gets his dilemma. He sticks close to Keith’s side, nearly shoulder to shoulder, and guides him towards the bus stop with a quick touch on the arm or vocal warnings. He nudges Keith into a seat on the bus itself far away from anyone else, and then takes the window side to block the sun a little better. 

Keith should probably feel thankful that Lance is being as considerate as he is, but he can’t bring himself to be anything but angry at him. He’d  _ lost  _ Shiro. He was supposed to be there and he’d  _ lost  _ him. 

Keith wouldn’t have lost him. Keith would have watched Shiro like a hawk, because Shiro is too much of a hero for his own good, no matter how badly he beats himself up believing he isn’t a good person. Shiro is always too busy looking out for everyone else to bother looking out for himself.

And now he’s gone. And it’s Lance’s  _ fault.  _

So he maintains a stony silence, glaring at the seat in front of him for the whole ride and studiously refusing to look at Lance. He can practically feel Lance’s guilt radiating next to him, even if he couldn’t already hear it in the constant fidgeting and tiny noises of discontent in the back of his throat, inaudible to any human. He lets Lance stew in it, because he deserves it.

He can’t call Kolivan on the bus ride over, since it’s too public for that conversation. But he does at least text him a warning.  _ Shiro missing since this afternoon. Convention center killer’s scent on evidence left behind. Start search ASAP.  _

Kolivan’s response is almost instant.  _ Troubling news. I’ll notify our agents immediately.  _

_ Thanks,  _ Keith types back.

_ There is more at stake with his disappearance than any other,  _ Kolivan’s answer comes quickly. As usual it’s blunt, ruthlessly pragmatic, and spares no expense.  _ He has knowledge of our inner workings, as well as those of House Altea, and a number of other cryptid factions. In the right hands he will talk. It is in our best interest to recover him as soon as possible. _

Keith swallows. Kolivan isn’t wrong, but it’s a harsh way to look at it. For cryptids who don’t see Shiro as a dangerous Covenant agent, he still doesn’t have much more than a professional acquaintance. They know he works for Allura. They know he can be useful to their own preservation. They know he has no intention of hurting them, unless they cross a line. They might even respect what he does. But they don’t really care about  _ him.  _

Very few people see Shiro the same way Keith does: as family. Kolivan sees a valuable asset with too much information in the hands of an enemy. Keith sees someone like a brother, who had offered him a hand when nobody else in the world would, taken by someone who will make him suffer. 

He can’t let it happen. He  _ can’t.  _

“This is our stop,” Lance mutters, elbowing Keith gently in the arm and breaking him out of his reverie. 

Keith gets up wordlessly and steps off the bus, with Lance trailing him. It had taken close to twenty minutes for them to get here, and the last glimmers of brilliant orange burn on the horizon, but it’s at least dark enough that Keith doesn’t need Lance to lead him around by the shoulder anymore. Lance gestures with a subdued, “This way,” and Keith follows after him, still silent.

Keith’s never had the opportunity to see the Unilu Flea Market in action. It usually closes before nightfall, so Keith only has the stories the others tell him and old memories from before his vampire traits grew in to go on. At night, it doesn’t look like much—just a warehouse with a locked door, and a fenced-in chain-link parking lot with a gate that’s padlocked shut. Any stalls have been carted away by their owners, and the place looks desolate and forlorn. Even the scents from today’s wares are already faded and bleak.

“We were there,” Lance says, gesturing to a point towards the back of the parking lot, closer to the warehouse. “Or at least, I was. I stopped at a farmstand—they were selling chickens and rabbits and stuff to eat, I figured it’d be okay if I grabbed one. Shiro said it was okay. I stopped to barter with the lady and…” He shrugs miserably. “When I turned around he was gone.”

“Where did you find his stuff?” Keith asks, ignoring Lance’s miserable look. 

“This way.” Lance leads him into the warehouse district proper, to a warehouse hidden behind another building closer to the flea market. The inside is blissfully dark, full of cast shadows, with only a hint of light filtering through the broken windows from the street lamps and the sunset outside.

“His backpack was about here,” Lance says, walking over to a point on the empty floor and pointing. “But I couldn’t pick up any other scent, Keith. I really tried. This place smells as wiped clean as the rit—”

_ “Don’t  _ say it,” Keith snaps. Lance flinches. It was probably harsher than was needed, but Keith doesn’t like even the  _ thought  _ of Shiro disappearing like those corpses. It’s too easy to follow that train of thought to Shiro already being a corpse. And Shiro can’t be dead. He can’t let Shiro be  _ dead.  _

He takes a deep breath through his nose, filling his lungs and scenting the air. Dust and mold are most prominent. Wood, termites, and something decomposing in the few remaining crates. The iron tang of rust from some of the equipment and the stairs leading to the second floor. Dirt, plaster, rat droppings. Traces of gasoline, probably from the cars outside. 

But nothing living, apart from Lance, assorted urban wildlife, and Keith himself. 

He keeps trying. He explores the entire building from top to bottom, forcing himself to breathe deeply and far more than usual to maximize on scents. It doesn’t matter what he does—no matter where he goes or how intensely he concentrates, there’s no sign of Shiro or his captors here anywhere. It really  _ is  _ like all traces of him here just...vanished. 

Lance trails after him silently, sticking within visual range but letting him do his thing. After more than an hour, though, he finally speaks up. “He’s not here, Keith,” he says. “We’re not gonna find him here, there’s no point—”

Keith finally snaps, and whirls on him angrily. “No  _ point?” _ he snarls. “I’m  _ trying  _ to find him, unlike you!  _ You  _ let him get taken!”

He expects Lance to snap back, like he always does. He  _ wants  _ him to snap back. Keith is so scared and angry by now that what he wants more than anything is a fight—a no-holds-barred screaming match where he can yell his insecurities out until they’re gone. He hasn’t been this furious and terrified since before Shiro took him in. But Lance is  _ always  _ good for an argument, and if anyone would rise to the bait it would be him.

But Lance doesn’t yell back like he always does. Instead, he hunkers forward, wraps his arms around himself, and says miserably, “I know. I _know,_ okay? I know this is all my fault. If I hadn’t been stupid and thinking with my stomach instead of my head Shiro might still be here. Or maybe I could have helped him fight off that guy. I _know_ it’s my fault.” 

He swallows, and looks Keith pleadingly in the eyes. “But I swear, I want to find him too. He’s important to me too. I’ll help however I can. I’m on your side, Keith.”

Keith grits his teeth, and then abruptly whirls, smashing a hole through the nearest wall with one of his fists. The rotting wood and plaster shatters easily under his strength, and spews dust everywhere, enough to make Lance start coughing. It’s not nearly as good as the shouting match he’d wanted, but it’s a way to get some of his anger out. 

_ Patience yields focus,  _ Shiro would tell him, if he were here. Which is ironic, because he’s  _ not  _ here and that’s the whole problem. But Shiro was always good at keeping him calm and making him think things through, and he’d want Keith to do that even with him not here. 

So he takes a deep, steadying breath, and tries to calm down.  _ Focus.  _ He can be angry at Lance—Lance screwed up, by his own admission. But he can’t  _ fight  _ with him. Lance wants to find Shiro as much as Keith does. They need to work together on this.

“Let’s check the rest of the area,” Keith says curtly, after a long moment. “Maybe they carried him out to a car or something.”

Lance doesn’t look like he believes it. But he dutifully follows after Keith anyway. 

They search the whole neighborhood for hours, until well past midnight. Keith insists on checking every single building and walking up and down every single street in the area, even vaulting the chain-link fence to get back onto the flea market property. They find a dozen abandoned buildings, two entrances to the Garrison underground, and a small family of bogeymen and hidebehinds living in another converted warehouse and basement complex, but no Shiro. 

The cryptids don’t even have information to sell on Shiro’s disappearance, because they hadn’t even realized ‘House Altea’s Covenant Man On A Leash,’ as they called him, was even in the area. “If I’d known, I’d have gone to ground until he was out of here,” one of the bogeyman says bluntly. 

“If you  _ do  _ see anything weird around, could you call this number?” Lance asks, smoothly sliding between the two before Keith could tear one of his arms off for insulting Shiro. “It’s really important. Matter of life or death. I’m sure Allura would pay a fair price for the information.” He offers one of Allura’s discreet business cards.

The bogeyman takes it with one of his long-fingered hands, eyes it curiously, and tucks it away. “I’ll think about it, if the price is right.”

Keith snaps. “He would save your life in a  _ heartbeat  _ if you were in trouble!” he snarls angrily. “And all you care about is the  _ reward— _ ”

“Thanks for your time!” Lance says, wrapping both arms around one of Keith’s and hauling him away from the startled bogeyman. “Remember to call, please!” 

In a contest of strength, Keith could win against Lance easily. But he allows himself to be led away, glaring furiously over his shoulder. “I can’t believe these people,” he growls. “Shiro could die and they want to waste time negotiating prices—”

“That’s just how bogeymen are, Keith, you know that,” Lance says. “They don’t know Shiro like we do, they think he’s just another  _ Shirogane.  _ You gotta chill, man. I know you’re upset, but if you keep scaring people off like that, we’re never going to find him.”

“I’m the only one  _ trying!” _ Keith snaps. “You’ve been dragging your feet all night since we got here, and Pidge and Hunk aren’t even here! Where’s Allura and her fancy connections? Even  _ Kolivan  _ is just treating Shiro like some...some  _ resource  _ to be recovered!” 

Lance looks hurt by that. “We care,” he says. “You don’t really believe we don’t, do you? We’re  _ all  _ scared for him, Keith.”

Keith wants to argue that it certainly doesn’t  _ look  _ that way, except when he glares at Lance, for the first time he really  _ sees  _ him. Lance’s whole body sags with exhaustion, and there are dark lines that blend in with the shadows under his eyes. The breaths in his lungs and throat rasp harshly. He’s  _ exhausted.  _ And belatedly, it occurs to Keith that Lance has been awake for a lot more than a few hours, and dragging the chupacabra after him all over the neighborhood was probably a lot after being up all day, too.

His anger deflates. He’s still mad at Lance for losing Shiro, but this isn’t helping matters any. “Let’s go back home,” he says flatly. “I don’t think there’s anything else here to find.”

Lance nods with obvious relief, and tiredly leads the way back to where Shiro had parked the car hours earlier in a nearby lot. 

Keith drives them back, letting Lance doze in the passenger seat, and mulls over their options. Going to the warehouse was the only idea he’d had. Without it, he’s hit a dead end, and he doesn’t know what else to do. Shiro could be anywhere by now, especially if magic was involved.

But he can’t give up on Shiro. He  _ can’t.  _ He has to figure out  _ something.  _ His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and he only stops when he hears the miniscule cracks as the material threatens to cave under his strength. 

_ Get a hold of yourself,  _ he rails at himself in his head.  _ You haven’t had this much trouble controlling your strength since Shiro started training you. Get it  _ together  _ already.  _

Pidge and Hunk are right where he left them when they get back, bent bleary-eyed over their computer screens with cold cups of coffee nearby. They both look up hopefully as Keith and Lance enter, but their faces fall when Keith shakes his head wordlessly. 

“We found some cryptids who might be able to notify us if they see anything, but don’t hold your breath,” Lance says tiredly, as he pulls up a chair at the kitchen table and wearily settles his head on his arms. “You guys have better luck?”

“Slav’s decodes are the worst,” Pidge groans. “I think we’re almost there, but…”

“What does it matter?” Keith asks. The others might be exhausted, but Keith feels wired, bursting with restless energy he can’t spend anywhere. He paces, ignoring their gazes on him. “What’s Slav going to do for Shiro?”

Pidge and Hunk exchange looks. “We’re hoping we can get his input on the ritual stuff,” Pidge explains slowly, after a moment. “If we can figure out what they’re summoning—”

“That doesn’t do  _ Shiro  _ any good,” Keith says. “The next sacrifice is in two nights, and the way things have been going, he’ll be a part of it unless we find him first!” He spins on his heel and stalks for the door. “I’m going to go back out and look for him.”

_ “No!”  _

Lance knocks over his chair in his haste to get to the door before Keith does, moving surprisingly fast for an exhausted chupacabra. He takes his other form when he reaches it, sticking firmly to the door and blocking it.

“Move,” Keith hisses warningly.

“Keith, you  _ can’t  _ go out alone,” Pidge says. “Buddy system, remember? Shiro  _ insisted  _ on it.”

“Yeah, and look how much good that did him!” Keith snaps, giving Lance a dirty look. Lance whines, ears flattening, but doesn’t budge from the door.

“It’s important because anyone on their own can be taken just as easily,” Pidge says stubbornly. “They got Shiro. They got a vampire with more strength and experience than you. If you go out there alone searching for Shiro, you could disappear too. It might be  _ you  _ we find two days from now in that ritual circle. Do you want to do that to us? Do you want us to explain that to Shiro, when we get him back?”

“I can’t just do nothing,” Keith says. “Shiro’s out there and he needs our help. I’m not going to just forget about him!”

“We’re not disagreeing with you, but do you know where to look?” Hunk asks, too reasonably for Keith’s liking. “‘Cause if you’ve got an idea, I’m all for it. I’ll go with you as a buddy right now, no matter how tired I am. But if you’re just gonna wander around…”

Which is exactly what Keith had planned on. Wander around. Poke through places in the community. Ask questions. All the same things they’d done uselessly for the past five days. 

Anything, to just feel like he’s doing  _ something.  _

“This isn’t giving up on Shiro,” Pidge says. “This is  _ finding  _ him. We know this cult is connected to Shiro’s disappearance. If we can figure out what they’re doing, we might get clues that lead us closer to them, and closer to  _ Shiro.”  _

She’s right. It doesn’t  _ feel  _ that way, but she’s right. Find one, and they find the other.

Keith just wishes it didn’t feel so badly like he was throwing Shiro to the metaphorical wolves. 

His anger deflates again, slithering away and leaving cold fear in its place. He wishes he could still be angry. It’s easier to feel like he’s doing something when he’s angry. “What can I do to help?” he asks finally, defeated. “I can’t just do nothing and wait.”

Lance, apparently sensing that Keith is no longer about to bolt out the door, finally unsticks himself from it and changes back. He wearily sets his knocked over chair upright, sits, and rests his head on folded arms once more.

“You could help with the rune identification,” Hunk says, after a moment. “The more we have to work with, the better. It’s mostly just matching pictures...and you’re better with blood than I am.” He grimaces.

Keith laughs humorlessly. “Fine. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” 

That’s how he spends the rest of the night. Looking at gruesome photographs of corpses that had once been people he’d known, zooming in on symbols carved into their skin and trying to find them in meticulous hand-written scanned notes. It’s not anything he’s particularly good at, and it’s slow and tedious, and he  _ itches  _ to hit the streets and search for Shiro. 

But the others had been right. It wouldn’t be productive. It would just be to make himself feel better about actively looking for Shiro.  _ This  _ doesn’t feel right, like he’s prioritizing the case over Shiro’s life, but it’s what Shiro would want. More importantly, Shiro’s wrapped up in this somehow, and maybe it will help. 

Maybe. He has to hope it will. He can’t accept that it won’t. 

So he takes his notes on anything he finds and he does what he can. At some point, the others fall asleep at the table, but Keith can’t bring himself to be too angry by now. All of them are exhausted, and all of them have been pushing themselves hard for Shiro in their own ways. He lets them rest, until the pull of the distant sun starts to tug at his senses and his eyelids, and he knows he has maybe a half hour left.

He nudges each of them, particularly carefully with Hunk, whose glasses are partially askew and primed for accidentally stunning someone. They blink blearily awake, and look around in confusion. “Ow,” Pidge moans. “I’m so tired of sleeping at the kitchen table…”

“Keith?” Lance mumbles. “S’up?”

“Dawn’s half an hour away,” he says. “I left notes on your computer for anything I found. Hope it helps.”

“Take a look now,” Pidge mumbles, pulling the laptop closer.

“One more thing,” Keith says, pulling out his phone and scribbling down a few numbers for them. “Here. This is Kolivan, Ulaz, and Thace. Keep them updated. They’ll all be awake during the day. Tell them I gave you their numbers and they’ll be fine with it. If you need backup for anything…”

“We got it, Keith,” Hunk says gently. “We’ll call them right away.”

“Good. And...and if you guys hear anything at all, if you have a chance to get him...don’t wait on me. Just go for it.” He’s surprised at how shaky his voice sounds, and swallows, trying to get it under control again. “Get him back. Whatever it takes.”

“We will,” Pidge promises. “We’ll let you know whatever we find tonight.”

“Thanks.” 

He leaves them to wake themselves and heads for his blissfully dark room, preparing for another day of unconsciousness. Not for the first time, he  _ hates  _ having to deal with the sun coma. It’s an irritation at best, but in situations like these he hates how  _ useless  _ it makes him. He can’t even protect himself, much less Shiro or anyone else. 

If he’d been able to be awake yesterday afternoon, they might not be in this mess. If he could be awake today, he could help them search. He could wake tonight and discover they’d been too late to get to Shiro, or that all of them were gone. All because he can’t remain conscious the moment the sun rises.

He tries to fight it, like he always does. He struggles to stay aware, even as he can feel the world getting warmer and brighter, with a sixth sense he’s never been able to explain. But the weight of it presses down on him like he’s run a hundred miles after being awake four days straight, dragging his heavy eyelids closed against his will. 

He manages one last thought— _ please be okay, please hang on, we’re going to find you, I’m not giving up on you— _ before his mind sinks away into the cast shadows of early morning dawn, and doesn’t come back again until darkness sets.

* * *

When Keith wakes that evening, his muddled mind swims for all of fifteen seconds before the dread from the night before comes slamming back into his brain.

He staggers to his feet and dresses in record time, even through the frustrating sluggishness of the sun daze, before stumbling out the door. Only Hunk is at the kitchen table this evening, which has a new stack of thick books piled to one side. Keith doesn’t hear anybody else in the apartment.

“Did you find him?” he asks without preamble.

Hunk doesn’t even need to say a word. His dejected, tired expression says it all for him. 

“Where is everyone?” Keith asks next, rifling through the new papers and books on the table. Several of them seem to be on deities and dimensions, most of them written by and smelling like Slav. That explains where they’d been today, at least.

“Lance had the idea to recruit Griffin and the others into searching for Shiro,” Hunk says. “Pidge went with him as a buddy.”

“Good idea,” Keith says, and he’s immediately angry at himself for not thinking of it last night. How much time could they have saved if an entire pack of werelions had been looking since the morning? Not all of Griffin’s werelions were capable of leaving Sanctuary or fully controlling themselves, but there were a good thirty of them at least that could. Most of them would be willing to look for Shiro, considering Shiro was the one who offered them an alternative to execution to begin with. 

“They should be back any time now, actually,” Hunk says, as he collects the pages and books on the table together and packs them away in a backpack. “After that we planned on heading over to Allura’s to try and trade notes and see if we can figure out what to do next. We were just waiting for you.”

“Good,” Keith says. It’s been more than twenty four hours already, and if they don’t come up with a plan, they might find Shiro tomorrow night—in a bloody ritual circle. 

Since they’re stuck waiting anyway, he helps himself to a blood pack from the fridge, warming the type-O up in the microwave in an oversized mug. He’s not particularly hungry tonight, but he  _ knows  _ he won't be able to bring himself to eat tomorrow, if they haven’t found Shiro before the ritual. Consuming blood doesn’t bother him anymore like it did when his diet was first transitioning. It’s just food to him now, and normally the scent of it is pleasant, even calming. But the thought of having any before going to the scene of one of those horrific murders—and the thought of so much of that blood being  _ Shiro’s _ —is enough to make his stomach churn anyway. 

“Before they get back…” Hunk ventures slowly, pausing in the middle of packing their research supplies away. “Maybe just...try to give Lance a break, tonight? If you can?”

Keith immediately scowls. “He didn’t do his  _ one  _ job, and Shiro might be  _ dead  _ because of him,” he says, unrepentant. 

“And trust me, nobody is beating Lance up over that more than Lance himself,” Hunk says. “He’s sorry about it and he can’t go back and change it, or he would. Try to cut him some slack and don’t be a jerk about it, okay? We have to work together to save Shiro.”

“I’m not being a jerk about it,” Keith mutters sullenly. 

Well, maybe a little. He hadn’t dragged Lance all over the neighborhood last night when he’d already been tired  _ intentionally.  _ But he might maybe have been too caught up in his own anger to pay attention. A little.

“Shiro always tells you two off when you get like this,” Hunk says sagely. “Just...try. You’re not the only one hurting here. We  _ all  _ want him back.”

Keith takes a slow, deep breath.  _ Patience yields focus.  _ “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Thanks,” Hunk says, with obvious relief.

Keith just barely finishes his breakfast before Lance and Pidge return. Pidge looks worn as always, although Keith thinks at least part of that is her tendency to stay up all day and night staring at screens for hours at a time. 

Lance, though...maybe it’s Hunk’s talk, or maybe it’s just that he’s more clear headed after another sun coma, but Lance looks terrible. The bags under his eyes are heavy, his whole body droops, and his internal systems sound sluggish and weaker than Keith is used to. 

“I’m an idiot,” Lance says without preamble, the moment they get through the door. “I  _ knew  _ I recognized that smell. It’s  _ werelion.”  _

“Sorry, what?” Hunk asks, staring. 

Lance collapses at the table, putting his head in his hands with a groan. “Last week at the convention center,” he says. “The other smell I tried to follow when our killer disappeared. It was on the tip of my nose and I couldn’t place it. It’s werelion. Transformed werelion. It hit me when we were visiting Sanctuary. That must be how he got in and out of the building without us knowing.”

Keith’s eyes widen at that. “You’re right,” he says. “They  _ are  _ the same. Which means…”

Pidge nods in grim agreement. “Yeah. He’s not one of Griffin’s. We checked—he didn’t recognize the sketch the Marmora Society made at all. So our ritual killer is working with the same people backing the werelion project you guys dealt with before I got here.”

“Galra,” all four of them say in unison.

“This is  _ huge,”  _ Hunk says, and his snakes hiss and sway, picking up on his agitation. “We gotta tell Allura and Coran and everyone else like... _ now.”  _

“Griffin’s already working on getting teams hunting down the new lead right away,” Lance says. “They’ve been building connections for finding lycanthropes to help rehabilitate them, they might hear something. Plus they’re pissed there’s another rogue werelion out there who could ruin the reputation they’re starting to build up.”

“Good,” Keith says. “You guys pack up whatever we need to bring to Allura’s and we’ll head out as soon as we can.” 

“On it!” Pidge and Hunk shout, and immediately set to work collecting the rest of the texts and packing up laptops, arguing over what they’ll need as they bustle about. 

In the ensuing chaos, Keith slips around them silently and stands over Lance. He doesn’t look any better up close than far away, and Keith can  _ definitely  _ hear his stomach gurgling. 

“Have you even eaten today?” Keith asks, frowning. 

Keith, as a vampire, has the luxury of only needing to eat once every few days unless he hurts himself—a fair exchange to being limited to primarily human blood. Lance has a much more easily accessible diet, but at the cost of needing to feed daily to keep up his strength. And vampire or chupacabra, the downside to an all-blood diet is that skipping meals has adverse effects  _ very  _ quickly. With only one resource for nutrients, you get sick fast if you don't stay on top of them, as Keith knows from bitter experience. 

But Lance only gives Keith a guilty, incredulous look at the question. “How can I even think about  _ eating  _ at a time like this?” he asks. “Last time I thought about stuffing my face, it got Shiro kidnapped!”

Keith’s frown grows deeper. Hunk hadn’t been kidding; Lance is punishing himself harder than anyone else here for his screw-up. He thinks back to yesterday, and suddenly feels a lot worse about how he’d treated his friend.

Wordlessly, he heads over to the fridge and snatches one of the plastic containers of pig’s blood from Lance’s shelf. It smells musty and just a little bit  _ off  _ to him, reminding him vaguely of scrabbling for rats and pigeons on the streets. He wouldn’t drink it personally unless he absolutely had to, but for Lance it’s just fine. He nukes it to freshly-killed temperature and dumps the whole thing in a travel mug, sealing it up and thudding it on the table in front of Lance.

“Eat,” he orders firmly. 

Lance looks startled, and glances between the travel mug and Keith with disbelief.

“You can eat on the way to Allura’s,” Keith says. “No excuses. Starving comes up on you a lot faster than you think on an all-liquid diet. You won’t help anybody if you make yourself sick.”

“Oh,” Lance says. After a moment, he accepts the travel mug and takes a long, slow drink.

Keith watches Hunk and Pidge packing their notes away, crossing his arms in front of him. After a moment, he says, “Sorry I yelled at you yesterday.”

“Huh?” Lance stares at him. “But you were right. It’s my fault—”

“Maybe a little,” Keith says. “But if you’re right and Galra is involved...it was only a matter of time, anyway. I think if they wanted to get him it wouldn’t have mattered if you were there. Maybe you’d have been killed, or taken too.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lance mutters. 

Keith sighs in exasperation. He’s  _ bad  _ at feelings and talking one on one. Even with Shiro, who knows him better than anyone else. And doing this with  _ Lance... _ they bicker so often he’s probably the hardest one to talk to. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Keith says. “And...I didn’t mean that you don’t care about Shiro, or you weren’t trying to find him, yesterday. Shiro is just...really important to me. So when I learned he was gone…”

“I get it,” Lance says. “He gave you a home when you didn’t have one.”

Keith blinks at him. “Yeah. How’d you know?” He knows they’ve asked Shiro, but Shiro has always told them it was Keith’s story to tell. And Keith had never felt comfortable about telling it, since so much of it was personal. 

“Not a hard guess,” Lance says. He gestures at himself, Pidge and Hunk. “He picks up strays. Same with the rest of us. I figured you’d be the same.”

Keith hesitates. “I’d been raised human my whole life,” he summarizes, after a long moment, staring carefully at the floor. “So when I started craving blood, I panicked and ran. I was homeless, on the streets. I didn’t know how to take care of myself. I was dying. Then Shiro found me.”

Lance winces sympathetically. “I guess that’s how you know about starving on an all-liquid diet, huh,” he says, giving his travel mug a contemplative look before taking another determined swig.

“More or less.” Keith’s fingers clench on his jacket sleeve, and he closes his eyes. “Shiro gave me a second chance. He was the first person in the whole world who did. I can’t give up on him yet. We can’t lose him.”

“And we’re not going to.” A meal and an apology seem to go a long way for Lance’s attitude, because he gives Keith a determined look and says confidently, “We’re  _ gonna  _ find him, Keith. And he’s gonna be alive.”

“Yeah.”  _ I sure hope so.  _

The rest of the night is a solemn affair as they regroup at Allura’s, and even the ever-present Aeslin mice are more subdued than usual. There had been no hiding Shiro’s disappearance from the Aeslin, and while the entire colony was distressed by his kidnapping, none were more so than his own congregation. Shiro’s devotiaries wore their finest black regalia and were in near constant prayer for his safety, occasionally interspersed with high-pitched wails of “Woe! Woe! Woe, the loss of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out Of The Darkness!” and “Would that we carried His Faith better! Alas for our Failure!” that set Keith’s teeth on edge. 

Allura had opted to bargain Food for Witness with the mice to shut most of them out of the room, which was a relief to Keith’s ears. A single member of Shiro’s congregation, his own little high priest, remains to fill the role of Witness alongside the usual red, blue, yellow and green ones. It wrings its paws and paces restlessly as they talk, but manages to keep silent while they trade information—a shocking feat for an Aeslin mouse.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much information to trade. The connection between their snake cult and Galra is probably the biggest, but it doesn’t give them much to work on right away. Allura reports precious little progress with her own connections, other than confirming she’d finally been able to talk to the sirens in Nalquod to notify them of Florona’s death. She had at least been able to confirm the girl had gone missing only a few hours prior to her body being found. 

The other notable news is Pidge’s meeting with Slav, which had gone off about as well as any meeting with Slav could. “He’s pretty sure he has a general idea of the area of dimensions we have to choose from,” Pidge explains. “Which still leaves a  _ lot  _ of possible options for snake gods being summoned—it’ll narrow down further the farther we get into the ritual. But we’re talking a lot of deaths. Fourteen at the bare minimum...maybe more. Whatever this thing is, it’s dimensionally very far away, and  _ enormous— _ enough to at the very least level a building or two.”

“So we still have time to stop it,” Lance says. “We’re only at eight.”

“But if we  _ don’t  _ stop it, we’re basically screwed,” Pidge says. “And don’t forget—if the pattern holds, and Slav thinks there’s a pretty good chance it will, the ninth and tenth deaths happen tomorrow.”

“Plus, a snake god that large will not only cause a great deal of collateral damage—the quintessence membrane it will bring with it will be significant,” Allura points out. “Which will give this cult, or Galra, or  _ both,  _ a great deal of power.”

Keith frowns at the table for a long moment. This doesn’t sit right in his gut, and finally he voices his thoughts. “This is wrong.”

Coran gives him a sympathetic look. “I know you want to be out there searching for Shiro, Keith, but—”

“No,” Keith says. “That’s not what I mean. I mean,  _ yes,  _ that’s what I want, but—ugh. Look, if we’re right and our killer is a werelion involved with Galra...then isn’t this a lot bigger than this snake ritual?”

Pidge frowns. “It’s already a big snake ritual.”

But Keith shakes his head insistently. He stands up, circling around to the map table and the neat little X’s marking their rituals and victims on the glass covering. The five Witness Aeslin watch with rapt anticipation in their place on the edge of the map. 

“I mean,” Keith says, “that if this is Galra, whatever they’ve been doing has been going back farther than the few weeks for this ritual. The stuff with the werelions, and with that incubus killing people—they were also making that happen. What if it’s  _ all  _ connected to the same thing?”

Hunk’s eyes widen, and he jumps up from his seat, his snakes hissing in surprise. “You’re right!” he says. “That Sendak guy said he wanted blood, and a lot of it. That’s why he was willing to let Prorok sic a whole army of werelions on the city, and why he burned my dorm down.”

“Macidus was killing on orders, too,” Lance agrees slowly. “From whoever or whatever Galra is.”

“And you think they are connected?” Allura asks. “Beyond this... _ Galra’s  _ cruel intentions?”

“Maybe,” Keith says. He snatches a red pen from the table and makes an ‘x’ over Garrison U’s dormitories, before turning to the mice. “Hey, uh...do any of you remember where the incubus murders were found?”

“Of course, High Priest of Undying Loyalty!” the red-dyed mouse squeaks shrilly. Keith grits his teeth. The Aeslin mice voices are jarringly painful on his sensitive hearing, even when they’re trying to keep it down. When they aren’t, which is most of the time, it would be less painful for him to jab needles into his ears.

But they’re smart and their memories are amazing. In short order, the mice have swarmed over the table, taking the pen Keith offers them and marking each of the old murders with neat little ‘X’ marks on the map. When they finish, they pause to review their work reverently, before the black one speaks solemnly. “There is a Pattern, High Priest.”

Keith swallows. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I see it.” The rest of the team, hearts thudding faster in reaction to Keith’s alarm, swarm close to the table to see as well.

_ “Oh.”  _ Pidge stares for a long moment. “I think the snake is gonna be a little bigger than we thought.”

“The High Priest of Screens and Subtlety speaks great wisdom,” the green mouse intones. “Dark and evil Gods smell blood and cruelty, and are Drawn to it unerringly. The more blood, the greater and more powerful the God.”

And Galra was definitely going for ‘more blood.’ The little red ‘X’ marks Keith and the mice made look innocuous by themselves, unrelated and on opposite sides of the city. But when combined with Allura’s pink marks from the other day, where the two blood rituals they had found so far had been located, they start to form the rough shape of a circle the size of the city. 

“Is it even  _ possible  _ to do a ritual on that scale?” Coran asks, shocked.

“Um. Theoretically, I think,” Pidge says. “It’s all really,  _ really  _ theoretical, and I don’t know nearly as much about blood magic as my dad did, and he didn’t know nearly as much as is out there. But...with a magic user who knows what they’re doing, and a good ritual, and enough of your ritual circle consecrated in blood...I think it could technically work.”

Lance mutters something that sounds harsh and angry in Spanish under his breath. Keith has no idea what it means, but immediately agrees with the sentiment anyway.

“We’ve gotta warn people,” Hunk says. “Everyone. If this happens, the whole  _ city  _ is in danger. No way the Covenant doesn’t hear about a….a  _ building-sized snake  _ bursting through from another dimension. A lot of people could die!”

“We could never evacuate the city in time,” Allura says. Her wings flutter in agitation, and Keith can make out her heart thudding wildly in her chest. But she maintains her composure shockingly well, considering. “Even with at least another month, per Pidge’s initial reasoning, there’s no way we could get all the cryptids in the community out on time. Some of them can’t travel easily, like the sirens or lamia. And that says nothing for the humans, who would never believe it. Even if they aren’t a part of the community, they are still a part of  _ my  _ city, and I will not let them be slaughtered so callously.”

“So we get ready to fight it,” Keith says, eyes narrowed.

Hunk gives him a horrified look. “Keith.  _ Keith.  _ It’s a building-sized snake. At  _ least.  _ How are you gonna fight a snake that big? Do you have tanks? Fighter planes? Do you have Godzilla on speed dial? Are we going to  _ Power Rangers  _ it up with a giant robot you haven’t told us you have? Because I’m thinking fighting it is a bad idea!”

“We don’t let it get that far,” Keith says. “We stop it  _ before  _ it gets there. Look.” He points at the map. “Before, we didn’t have any idea where to search. Now we have a better one. If we look in the circle formed here, we might have a chance to find something.” He traces the route with his fingers. 

“That’s still a lot of ground to cover,” Lance says doubtfully. “Even with the Marmorites and Griffin’s werelions. It’s all over the city.”

“Then we recruit,” Allura says firmly. “There are others in the community who would be willing to help. Some may not necessarily like Shiro, but they  _ do  _ understand he is important to the community and knows many of its secrets. They will help us look for him to protect themselves if nothing else. And there are many more who have great respect for Shiro, after he helped them or their personal communities. They will certainly be willing to assist as they can.”

“There must be a way to interrupt this ritual as well,” Coran says thoughtfully, stroking his mustache. “Right? Some kind of counter-charm, or way to purify the places where the blood sacrifices happened?”

“Maybe,” Pidge says. “I’d need to know a little more about the ritual to design an exact counter for this one. It’s like getting rid of malware—you need to understand the problem to know the solution. But we could probably at least weaken it with some purification rituals. I’ll start researching into it right away.” 

“And what should the rest of us do?” Lance asks, looking at Keith expectantly.

Keith stares back. “Why are you asking  _ me?”  _

“I dunno. Just. Y’know. You’ve worked in the field with Shiro the longest. You’re kinda like his second in command, right?”

“We don’t have  _ any  _ command,” Keith says. “We just help Shiro.” Shiro had never been comfortable recruiting any of them for his missions even then. And after the Covenant, he never wanted to be part of any paramilitary organization again. Keith doesn’t think Shiro even realizes just how much the rest of them look to him not just as a friend, but as a  _ leader.  _ He’s not sure Shiro would be happy with it if he did realize, either.

“You do have the most experience when it comes to fieldwork in the city, though,” Allura points out. “I can handle things on the information and communications angles, but organizing volunteers and agents and taking action on leads in the field has always been Shiro’s prerogative. Without him here, you’re the one with the next most experience.”

“Isn’t Coran ex-military?” Keith asks. “Wouldn’t  _ he  _ be better?”

“I am,” Coran says, “But my first priority is protecting Allura and holding down the defenses here. If you have something specific for me to do I can help. If not…”

Keith bares his teeth a little, instinctively defensive. “I’m  _ not  _ replacing Shiro.”

“Nobody’s saying you are,” Hunk says, with honest surprise. “But somebody’s gotta make the calls right now so we can get him back, right? And I mean... _ I  _ can’t do it. I get put in charge of group projects at college and they don’t get done. I’m a follower, not a leader.”

“I lost Shiro,” Lance says glumly. “Pretty sure that discounts me. I can’t keep track of one person, much less...uh. A lot more than one person.”

“Too busy on this ritual thing,” Pidge says, pointing at the computer in her lap. 

“And  _ also  _ fifteen,” Coran points out lightly. Pidge scowls at him.

Keith huffs. It’s not like  _ he  _ wants to be any kind of leader either. He’s always been content following Shiro’s lead. 

But...much as he hates it, they do have a point. Keith had been working with Shiro on his missions almost two years longer than anyone else. Only Allura and Coran had been around for longer than that, but Coran had made it clear he had his place already, and Allura was right in that she didn’t do a lot of field work. They’re limited on options, and he’s the best they have, daunting as it is.

“Fine,” he agrees grudgingly. “I’ll make the calls. But  _ only  _ until we find Shiro—once we do, he’s calling the shots again. And Allura and Coran will still need to fill in for me during the day if something big comes up.”

“That is agreeable,” Allura says. “If an emergency happens, I can certainly manage it.”

“Then…” Keith closes his eyes and crosses his arms, trying to think. What play would Shiro make here, if he  _ was  _ here, and they were trying to find a different missing person? 

“I’ll contact Kolivan and get the Marmora Society patrolling this route,” he decides, gesturing to the map. “I’ll join them on that. So will anyone Allura can track down while recruiting who can search at night. We’ll work with the same buddy system Shiro pushed so there’s less chance of anybody disappearing. Pidge keeps working the counter-ritual angle. As soon as we can weaken them, we’ll do it.” 

“And us?” Lance asks, pointing at himself and Hunk.

“You two rest.”

_ “Rest?”  _ Lance says, incredulous. “We finally got a lead and you want us to take a nap? What the hell?”

_ “You’re  _ the one who wanted me to make the calls,” Keith snaps back. “Shiro would tell you guys to rest. I can’t do anything during the day. Pidge is stuck researching. That means we need you two working the route during the day, with Griffin’s werelions and any other volunteers who can handle sunlight.”

“Oh,” Hunk says. “That...actually makes sense. Yeah. Okay. We’re the day team. That’s cool.”

“You may stay here for now, if you like,” Allura says. “It may be easier for us to coordinate our efforts in the same place...and safer as well.”

“Works for me,” Pidge says. “We brought all the books Slav let me borrow. That and access to your network and I have everything I need.”

“Then everyone get to work,” Keith says. “We’re going to find Shiro, and we’re going to bring him home.”

For the first time since they arrived, the Aeslin Witness mice let out an exuberant,  _ “HAIL!”  _


	28. Homo sapiens: Part Four

“See, I have a family too. Having a family seems to be the trigger that keeps forcing people to heroism.”   
—Verity Price,  _ Chaos Choreography  _

**_The Altea Penthouse, continuing narration with the assistance of Keith Kogane_ **

With barely a half hour to dawn, Keith stumbles into Allura’s penthouse, his enthusiasm severely diminished.

He’d  _ hoped  _ they’d make some progress, now that they had a place to actually  _ look.  _ He’d called Kolivan for a ride and given the Marmora Society all the information they’d discovered, and Kolivan had been quick to organize search teams along the routes Keith suggested. Keith had felt good about finally being able to do something again. With every building and underground community they searched, Keith had been  _ certain  _ they would finally stumble across the clues to Shiro’s or the mysterious Galra’s whereabouts.

But there had been nothing. Nothing at all. And now the night is over, and he can’t do  _ anything  _ until the next nightfall. In less than twenty-four hours, there’s going to be another sacrifice, and they’re still no closer to finding it and stopping it before it happens. 

By the time Keith wakes again, Shiro could already be well on his way to being murdered. 

_ But there’s still the daylight,  _ he reminds himself. Lance and Hunk will be ready to take the day searches. Allura will have volunteers ready to help, for their own self-preservation if nothing else. 

They’ve even narrowed the search somewhat, to make it easier for them. Keith dutifully reports the places they’ve already looked through to a small congregation of black-dyed Aeslin mice eagerly waiting at the city map for just such a purpose. With their eidetic memories and attention to detail, they’ll be able to mark off the locations already reviewed for Keith, so Lance, Hunk and the others don’t waste time backtracking. 

The mice swarm over the map enthusiastically, eager to assist in any way they can with the recovery of their beloved High Priest. When they’re done marking the map, Keith can’t help but feel dejected. It had felt like they’d looked through so much out there, but on the map, it’s so little.

“You must have Faith,” one of the mice tells him sternly. It’s Shiro’s little high priest. It waves an admonishing paw at him. “We will find the High Priest. But you must Believe.”

“Right,” Keith says, too tired to deal with Aeslin religious lectures right now. “Make sure the others know where to search. I’ll be back at dusk to help.”

_ “HAIL!”  _

The one  _ nice  _ thing about the sun coma, Keith reflects bitterly, is that no matter how awful he feels going to bed, he  _ always  _ falls asleep the moment the sun fully rises. He never dreams, either, which means he never has nightmares. 

Kolivan says that will change too, when he’s old enough the sun coma isn’t needed anymore. Ten to fifteen hours of solid unconsciousness with absolutely no movement, no brain activity, and no awareness allows their incredibly slow-to-mature vampire bodies to repair, grow and get stronger with no interruptions or waste of resources. 

It’s annoying, but at least he can’t dream about seeing Shiro’s mutilated corpse in the middle of a hideous, blood-spattered ritual circle. He frets enough about that in the night as it is.

When he wakes again the next night, it’s to the rest of his friends waiting for him anxiously in the den. One look at their faces, a few seconds of listening to their anxious heartbeats, is all he needs to know they still don’t have Shiro back. 

At this point, he’s not sure if he wants to punch something, or cry.

“Any leads on the rituals?” he asks without preamble. If they don’t have Shiro, they  _ have  _ to find where the next killings will be before it’s too late. 

Lance shakes his head. He looks exhausted again, but at least his stomach isn’t growling like it had been last night. He’d taken Keith’s warning to heart at least. “Nothing. We searched a ton more of your route today. Allura found a bunch of people to help us. Even Nyma and Rolo are watching the black market and the underground for news.” He sighs. “But no dice.”

Keith’s heart thuds heavily in his chest.  _ No. No, no, no.  _ They  _ can’t  _ lose Shiro.  _ He  _ can’t lose Shiro. Not like this. Not in such an unfair way.

“What about the counter-ritual?” he asks, eyeing Pidge.

“We might be able to cleanse the sites a little, with holy water, special incense, or some purified salts,” Pidge says. “With a smaller snake god summoning, that might help. With one this big, and with a sorcerer backing it with some real power...I just don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

“Keep trying,” Keith says. “And we’ll hit the streets again, keep searching the route.” He tries to conceal how desperate he is to just  _ find  _ some kind of solution in his voice. He’s not so sure he succeeds. 

They try. Keith meets up with Thace and spends the next five hours hitting the streets, searching through their route. Try as they might, they don’t find anything useful. And when Allura’s number lights up on his phone close to midnight, he knows  _ exactly  _ what that call is about, and his whole body ices over in fear.

“There’s been another ritual murder, hasn’t there,” he says, the moment he picks up.

“Yes.” Allura hesitates. “It’s...at the warehouse Shiro disappeared at.”

_ No. No. No, no, no.  _

It couldn’t be. They’d checked that whole area.  _ Twice.  _ It was part of the potential circle they’d traced into the city. He’d been through there once with Lance, and a second time with the Marmora teams. There was nothing  _ there.  _

“The others are on their way there now. Lance and Hunk as well...they did not feel comfortable sleeping through it, if…”

If this was the way they had to say goodbye to Shiro. 

_ No, no, no, no, no. Not like this. Please, not like this.  _

“How...how did we learn about this one? Did...did the caller recognize…”

“The bogeymen you gave my card to the other night,” Allura says. “One of them found it. They...thought it best to call in, considering. They don’t know either of the victims, though.” 

_ Please, no. Please not like this.  _

“We’re on our way,” Keith nearly whispers. 

“I’m sorry, Keith,” Allura says helplessly. “And...and good luck.”

Keith doesn’t need to explain the situation to Thace. He’d easily overheard it on the phone. He takes the lead immediately, heading back to his car and driving them to the scene of the murder. That’s good, because as much as Keith had agreed to call the shots for them in the field, right now he just... _ can’t.  _ His whole body is numb with dread, and his brain just keeps looping over and over through the conversation.  _ It’s at the warehouse Shiro disappeared at. Didn’t know the victims. Good luck. Good luck. Good luck.  _

“I can check for you, if you like,” Thace says, when they arrive. He can  _ obviously  _ hear Keith’s distress in his increased heart rate and breathing; Keith doesn’t even try to deny it. “It is a difficult thing, to see a dead comra—”

“He’s not  _ dead,”  _ Keith says stiffly, refusing to accept it, burying himself in denial before—

_ Before.  _

He’s paralyzed. He can’t get out of the car. His limbs are so tense it hurts, and he’s perfectly still in a way humans just  _ can’t  _ be. If he stays here, if he can’t move, that truth can’t happen, and Shiro will be—

_ Alive. Okay. Safe.  _

But if he doesn’t move, he can’t prove he  _ is  _ still alive either. Terrified as he is, he forces himself on tense, trembling limbs to leave the safe ignorance of the car, and duck into the warehouse Shiro had disappeared in. 

Keith had been able to smell the blood easily outdoors, but the moment he steps into the warehouse the scent gets dramatically stronger. Like before, two bodies are posed in the center of a vile bloodied circle, opposite each other, male and female. Like before, each body is carved with those terrible runes, even sharper and more distinct than last time. The woman’s face is closest to the door; Keith doesn’t know her, but he can identify her as a Madhura immediately from her syrupy blood, too sweet and off-putting for his vampiric senses. The man’s features are harder to make out, but when Keith circles the bloody circle with shaking steps, they become more distinct.

It’s  _ not  _ Shiro. He has dark hair and is around the same height. But his facial features are different, and his pale, staring eyes aren’t the same as Shiro’s. He looks and smells more or less human, although that doesn’t necessarily mean he is one.

Keith breathes a shaky sigh of relief.  _ Not Shiro. Not Shiro. Not Shiro. Shiro could still be alive. Thank God, Shiro still has a chance.  _

He feels awful a moment later, because Shiro might be alive, but whoever this poor guy was had to die in his place. He’d probably been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Keith is the asshole being  _ relieved  _ that he’d died instead. He probably had somebody out there who would miss him just as badly as Keith missed Shiro. 

_ You did everything you could,  _ Keith tells himself.  _ We all did. We tried to beat them to it. We just didn’t make it in time.  _

“Is...is it…?”

Keith looks up in time to catch his friends spilling through the open doorway, past Thace and other Marmora agents already arriving to document the scene. He shakes his head. “Not Shiro. It’s someone else. Not sure who.”

Lance sniffs deeply, and gives the corpses on the concrete a sad look. “I don’t know about the guy, but I recognize her,” he says. “She was selling baked goods at the flea market when Shiro and I went. She must’ve seen something…”

The victims were usually witnesses. That made sense.

“Guys,” Hunk says slowly. “Whoever did this...does it seem like they’re messing with us?”

Pidge frowns. “Yeah. This is the place Shiro disappeared. They  _ know  _ we’re looking for him. They’re rubbing it in our faces.”

“They’re  _ not  _ gonna get away with it,” Keith snarls angrily. “Let’s get what we need and get back to work. We’re not letting them get away with this for another week.”

By now, they have the procedure down. Keith and Lance work on getting pictures of the bodies and the ritual circle so Pidge can review them. Hunk, with a Marmora agent as backup, goes to talk to the bogeyman who called in the murder. 

“He didn’t see anything happen, just the aftermath,” Hunk reports. “He figured maybe Lance was onto something at that point and called it in.” He laughs humorlessly. “He even took back the nasty stuff he had to say about Shiro. Said if this was the kind of thing ‘the Shirogane’ had been trying to stop, maybe he wasn’t that bad after all. I told him to take his family and get out of town for a month if he could. Hopefully he won’t be a part of next week’s ritual.” He swallows. 

Keith nods grimly in agreement. Now that the initial raw  _ terror  _ of Shiro ending up in that circle is past, Keith is more angry than afraid. These people were still killing,  _ and  _ they were messing with them. They might still have Shiro, or they might have killed him days ago. Either way, they have a week to work again before another ritual killing, more evidence to review, a lead to pursue, and dozens of volunteers putting their efforts into bringing Galra  _ down.  _

They’re going to find Shiro. They’re going to  _ stop  _ these murders from happening. And the killers aren’t going to know what hit them.

* * *

They don’t find anything that night. Pidge is able to confirm the characters for ‘ninth death’ and ‘tenth death’ on the bodies, and that the ritual is ramping up even further based on the new position of the corpses and extra symbols. 

It’s not ideal, but they still have time to turn it around. 

They don’t find Shiro the next night, either. 

Or the one after that.

Or the one after that. 

Each night Keith hits the streets, searching the potential future ritual locations for clues of preparation, or signs for watching cultists. They concentrate on areas that haven’t been bloodied by ritual circles yet, as far as they know, but it’s all guesswork. They don’t know where the first two sets of murders happened. They’re flying blind, and they know it.

They keep trying anyway. They expand their search, hunting through areas close to but not in the projected ritual circle track. Keith and the Marmora agents push hard at night, trying to find anything they can. Lance, Hunk, Griffin’s werelions, and any other volunteers they can find pick up the search during the day. 

And it goes on, in an endless, useless cycle. And still they have nothing. 

On night four, Pidge makes a minor breakthrough on the rituals. “They still need the bodies,” she says grimly. “Anyone they’ve killed will still be needed to activate the final ritual. All these runes on all of them work in conjunction with one another. They’ll have to be arranged in a final layout too.”

“So we look for places that could preserve a ton of bodies,” Keith says. “There can’t be too many of those. You would need, what...a walk in freezer? A funeral parlor?”

Pidge shakes her head. “We know they’re packing magic. They could preserve the bodies with special spells. It’s super unhygenic to block  _ that  _ much bacteria, so if we do find them,  _ don’t  _ touch them. But it means they could put them anywhere they have the space.”

That doesn’t help a lot, but it does still let them exclude some smaller buildings and apartment complexes from their search. Pidge had estimated fourteen deaths, bare  _ minimum,  _ and most apartments don’t have the space to arrange fourteen or more bodies like a vile piece of art. They target warehouses, complexes, and some larger areas of the Garrison underground. 

They still find nothing.

Keith starts to get scared again. At the beginning of the search, he’d been  _ confident  _ they could find Shiro within a week. They had an idea of what the enemy was doing and enough time and resources to make something of it. Now, much closer to the next sacrifice date, Keith is starting to feel the pressure again. 

Shiro had made it through the last murders. Keith’s not sure he’ll make it through this next set. 

He wearily turns his latest findings—or lack thereof—to the Aeslin mice on duty at the table, sagging with exhaustion and defeat. The mice, as always, are eager to take his information and translate it to the table, which is now covered in an army of little marks. The black-clad creatures burst into enthusiastic, high pitched prayers of thanks, for the diligence of the other High Priests, and of protection, in the hopes that their own beloved High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness might soon be returned to them.

Keith doesn’t know how they do it. They talk about  _ faith  _ all the time, and seem to trust implicitly that the team will manage to get Shiro back. Shiro hasn’t even been missing for a full week yet, and yet with each day that passes, it feels more and more like he’s slipping away from them permanently. 

_ Don’t think like that,  _ he tells himself sharply.  _ It’s Shiro. He’ll be fine.  _

But if Shiro hasn’t come back yet on his own, he’s in trouble. He needs them to  _ help  _ him. And they can’t do it, no matter how hard they’re trying. The more nights pass, the less chance that Shiro is even still living. 

How can they maintain  _ faith  _ when Keith’s scared out of his mind that nothing is ever going to be right again?

“Does something trouble you, High Priest of Undying Loyalty?” one of the little priests asks. 

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say  _ no.  _ What do the mice care how he feels? Why should he even tell them, when it’s just going to get turned into some high-pitched song or weird scripture? Shiro and Coran are currently the only ‘High Priests’ with a significant following amongst the mice, but all of them—even Pidge, who only just got her title a few weeks ago—have a few devoted rodents who patiently spin everything they do into religious stories. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.

But the mice regard him with such shocking sympathy and simple understanding that Keith unexpectedly says, “I just miss Shiro. I’m worried about him.”

The little mouse nods. “That is understandable, High Priest,” it says. “You are the patron of loyalty. To lose that which you are loyal to must cause immeasurable pain.” The other mice  _ oooh  _ and  _ hail  _ as though some great theological truth has been uncovered, although Keith can’t fathom what. 

“Would you, perhaps, like us to recite the catechisms of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness?” another of the Aeslin mice asks. “The Divine are always close to us as long as we Remember them. Even far away. Even Beyond.”

Keith hesitates. The mice’s squeaky little voices hurt his ears, but he won’t be awake too much longer anyway. It’s better than nothing. Maybe it would help. “Alright. Sunrise is soon, but if you don’t mind reciting in my room…”

“It would be an Honor!” the mice cheer, and one of them scampers forward to gently accept Keith’s hand, and scurry up onto his shoulder.

That’s how Keith spends his last twenty minutes before sunrise. Laying curled in a borrowed guest room bed with blocked windows, facing the wall and waiting for the sun coma to overtake him, listening to the squeaky, solemn voice of an Aeslin mouse as it recites history like a religious parable. 

“—but the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness, in His infinite Wisdom, sensed the calling of the Lion Goddess was not yet complete. For the High Priest is the patron protector of the Alone, and the Innocent, and He sensed His protection was yet still needed. And so He returned to the place of darkness, and found there the first of the Blood Hunters, not yet manifest into the Divine. He saw the Blood Hunter hungered, and suffered, and Said, This is Not Right. And He did reach down into the darkness, and granted the Blood Hunter the blessing of the Lion Goddess, and His own Divine blood, and carried him to safety—”

It’s not the worst way to fall asleep. It brings back memories, until it’s  _ almost  _ like Shiro is there again. He listens to the stories until the sun coma swallows him up, and he doesn’t remember anything else. 

* * *

On the fifth night, a full week after Shiro’s disappearance, they start to float the topic of trying... _ alternate  _ measures to find him again. 

“Alternate measures?” Coran asks, skeptical. “What do you mean?”

“I was thinking, maybe...we could...uh....try the crossroads. Maybe,” Hunk says, fidgeting nervously. 

Everyone stares at him.

“I mean, Lotor helped Shiro out last time, right?” Hunk says. “And the way Shiro told it, Lotor doesn’t like this Galra thing at all. So, maybe…”

“That’s stupid,” Pidge says immediately.

“Says the  _ only  _ person here who went to the crossroads!” Lance points out immediately. “Hypocrite much?”

“That’s  _ why  _ I’m the one qualified to tell you how stupid this is,” Pidg says flatly. She ticks off the points on her long, multi-jointed fingers. “One, there’s no guarantee Lotor even has the answer. We know some of his memories and knowledge got screwed up and taken because of being possessed by that shade thing, and we know it’s possible to hide information from him, because  _ we  _ did it. Two, even if he does know, you don’t know what the price will be, or if you can pay it. Three, even if he does know  _ and  _ you can pay for it, Lotor  _ isn’t  _ our friend or on our side and he’s not going to ‘help out’ because he can. He’s got his own agenda and you have no way to know if your price will backfire on you later.”

“Pidge is right,” Allura says, and Coran nods vehemently in agreement. “This is not an option we can take. The risks are simply too dangerous. We must find Shiro on our own.” 

“Keith?” Hunk says, and the others turn to him to make the final call.

Keith swallows. “They’re right,” he says after a moment. “Too risky. Shiro would be angry if we put ourselves in debt to Lotor for his sake.”

Hunk sighs. “It was just an idea. Sorry, guys. I know it’s a dumb one. I’m just nervous. This is all getting a little too real for me.”

“We get it,” Pidge says, sympathetically. “Trust me. I of  _ all  _ people know what it’s like to miss somebody you care about enough to make a devil’s deal over it. But trust me when I also say, it’s not the answer.”

“We’ll definitely find him on our own,” Lance says, although he doesn’t look entirely confident in his words. “We will. For sure.”

And it’s true. It  _ is  _ a stupid move. There’s too much at risk with a deal with Lotor. Even with the price fully paid for, Shiro’s deal had  _ still  _ caused him to suffer after, even if nobody but Keith knows about it.

And yet.

Even with  _ all  _ of Pidge’s points in mind, they’re getting close enough to the next sacrifice that Keith thinks it might be worth it anyway. Even having  _ been  _ to Oriande. Having seen the trouble it got Pidge and Shiro into. Knowing what Lotor is capable of, even uncorrupted.

He doesn’t care. If they get to the night of the sacrifice and they have nothing, Keith’s making a deal anyway. Shiro can be angry at him for it. Keith doesn’t care.

At least he’ll be alive to be angry.

* * *

On the sixth night, Keith wakes with a feeling of absolute dread. Tonight is the last  _ full  _ night they have to try and find Shiro, and if they don’t, tomorrow night there’s going to be another set of deaths they couldn’t prevent. And the odds that Shiro will be part of the body count this time will be very high.

He’s more tired and numb than he is angry, by now. That’s partly the sun coma, but it’s partly the hopeless resignation setting in. It’s been over a week, and they have nothing. He’s not giving up—he will  _ never  _ give up on Shiro—but he’s starting to think the only thing they’re going to find is a body to bury.

But when he reaches the study and the map, he’s not met by equally resigned, hopeless expressions from his friends. They turn to him like they were just  _ waiting  _ for his arrival, and each one has a look of intense determination on their faces. Their hearts flutter with excitement, the blood rushes faster in their veins, and there’s energy in the air that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“What happened?” Keith asks immediately, straightening. “Did we find a lead?”

“Not just any old lead,” Lance says. “Griffin found our escaped killer.”

Keith’s eyes narrow, and his own heart jumps almost painfully in his chest. “Tell me  _ everything.”  _

“They have him secured at Sanctuary now,” Allura supplies. “The safest place to keep a rogue lycanthrope is in a facility designed to keep them separated from the general populace for rehabilitation. He was caught four hours ago. They’re keeping him under  _ very  _ heavy watch.”

“Does he know where Shiro is?”

“If he does, he’s not talking,” Hunk says. “They’ve been questioning him for hours. We even called Kolivan after the first hour, and him and Thace have been trying to break this guy ever since.” He winces, which almost certainly means ‘interrogation’ involves torture. “Nothing yet.”

“It’s tricky, since the accomplice is a lycanthrope,” Pidge adds grimly. “They have to be careful, or he could infect them. Nobody wants vampire werelions.” 

No kidding. “I want to see this guy,” Keith says grimly.

“We were just waiting for you before we head back over,” Lance says. “We had a feeling you would say that.”

It doesn’t take long to reach Sanctuary, fortunately, and Kinkade is already outside, waiting for them. “Still nothing,” he reports without preamble, as Keith and the others approach. “He’s very...resistant.”

“Has he said  _ anything?”  _ Lance asks, crestfallen.

Kinkade shakes his head. “Not that I know of. This way.”

They meet Kolivan, Thace, and Griffin outside of the room set aside for interrogation. It’s one of the rooms designed for early stages of transformation with fresh lycanthropes—soundproof, with sturdy walls with thick padding to prevent accidental injury, and without anything in it a wild, rampaging lycanthrope could hurt themselves on in their confusion. This one has an observation window, so Griffin’s more experienced lycanthropes can keep an eye on the new ones and intervene if they’re struggling, or provide friendlier interactions if the newer ones can understand it. 

It makes it an ideal cell for a mature lycanthrope as well. Keith can see the bastard through the window bound with thick chains to a sturdy metal chair, both too solid for him to break by simply transforming into a larger creature. He’s guarded by Rizavi and Leifsdottir, both of whom are ready to leap on him in a heartbeat if he causes any trouble. He’s bruised, and one eye is swollen shut, but he isn’t as bloody as Keith expected—though, considering he’s a lycanthrope, that only makes sense. Making him bleed while questioning him would be dangerous. 

Keith has no pity for him. The man is associated with almost a dozen ritual deaths. Maybe more outside of that. And he’s tied up in Shiro’s disappearance somehow, just by virtue of being associated with  _ Galra.  _ Keith  _ hopes  _ Kolivan beats the answer out of him, and so much more. 

But Kolivan reports much the same as Kinkade, with a frustrated, grim look on his face. “He’s been trained to resist interrogation,” he reports flatly. “He’s spouted some pseudo-religious nonsense about ‘ascending,’ and promised his mistress will kill us. That’s it.”

“They gave us the same story when they first transformed us,” Griffin says, arms crossed. “About ‘ascension.’ They believe they’re becoming something more than human. Should have figured they were part of a cult...they always acted like one around us.” Kinkade hums in agreement.

“Can you get anything out of him?” Keith asks.

“Eventually,” Thace says. “Now that the night has come, we are stronger. There may be a few more options.”

“All people talk eventually,” Kolivan agrees. “But with this level of loyalty, it may take some time. Perhaps the whole evening. Especially since some of our methods are impossible, with his….condition.” He glances at Griffin and Kinkade too quickly for anyone but Keith to catch, but the implication is clear.

“All  _ night?”  _ Pidge hisses. “Shiro doesn’t have that kind of time! And we don’t even know if he’s gonna just...give us directions to the place Shiro is even at!”

She’s right. She’s too right. If they can’t get Shiro tonight…

_ I’ll still make the deal with Lotor,  _ Keith promises himself grimly. _ I’ll do it, if I have to. But it’ll suck if we’re so close to the answer. _

“And there’s no other way to get information out of this guy?” Hunk asks, tapping his fingers together nervously. “Don’t vampires hypnotize people or something?”

Kolivan gives him a flat, insulted stare. Thace says more diplomatically, “That is a common fallacy. Your gaze has more power than mine, gorgon.”

“Oh.” Hunk offers a sheepish, apologetic grin. “Uh. Sorry. My mistake.”

But Keith thinks Hunk has the right idea. There  _ has  _ to be another way to get the information out of this guy. As much as Keith would  _ love  _ to punch it out of him, they don’t have that kind of time. Vampires can’t hypnotize, but can anyone else in Allura’s list of recruits pull that kind of trick? Do they know anybody good at manipulating people? There has to be  _ somebody  _ in Shiro’s good graces with the skills they need to help—

It hits Keith unexpectedly. It’s so  _ simple,  _ an answer that he’s known for years on a professional level. In fact, they’re one of the first cryptids Shiro had ever introduced Keith to, long before he’d met his friends or even the Marmora Society.

“I’ve got an idea,” Keith says. “I need to make a call.”

“To whom?” Kolivan asks, frowning. “I assure you, we will get the information eventually—”

“I know somebody who can do it faster,” Keith says.

Half an hour later, the sleek, nondescript black sedan rolls up outside of Sanctuary, and Rolo and Nyma step out of the vehicle, with the obnoxious church griffin Beezer slung lazily around Rolo’s shoulders. “This is a surprise,” Rolo drawls, as Keith, Lance, Pidge, and Hunk come to meet them, with Kinkade trailing along behind as their escort. “I know we offered to keep our ear to the ground with our underground connections, but I didn’t figure you’d have much of a job for us otherwise.”

Lance stares directly at Nyma, ignoring Rolo’s existence entirely. “We  _ love  _ having you around just for company,” he says, with a sappy grin on his face.

Nyma shakes her head at him in fond exasperation. As a chupacabra—and a partial reptile—Lance is completely immune to her succubus pheromones, even if she  _ was  _ trying to turn on the charm with him, which she wasn’t. That doesn’t stop him from trying to flirt with her at every opportunity anyway, entirely of his own unmanipulated volition. 

Keith rolls his eyes and shoves Lance out of the way. “I realize it’s short notice, but this is important,” he says. “He might have the key to Shiro’s location, but we can’t get anything out of him. I know you guys sell information, sometimes. That means you have to have ways to get it. Can you get this?”

“Please,” Rolo says with a smirk, as he scratches Beezer under the chin. “Nyma’s a professional. You ought to know that by now, kid.”

Keith tamps down his irritation at the ‘kid’ title. Shiro had taken Keith with him on trips to Nyma and Rolo’s underhanded trading business to negotiate for blood packs, back in the early days when he’d first been given a home. They’d long since worked out a steady deal for Keith’s food supply, and Keith had gotten better at negotiating with them on his own, enough that Shiro would often send him to purchase and barter for supplies or information on missions. It still didn’t stop them from treating him like the waif of a vampire Shiro had tagging along in his shadow two and a half years ago. 

“I suppose you’ve been trying the violent approach so far,” Nyma notes, examining her nails. “Punching, needles, the rack—”

“We don’t have a rack here,” Hunk says, bewildered.

“Just making a point,” Nyma says. “It lacks subtlety. Never send a warrior to handle a thief’s job.”

“A thief?  _ Who  _ are these guys, exactly?” Pidge asks. “And...is that a  _ church griffin?”  _

“His name’s Beezer,” Rolo says. “Wanna pet him?”

_ “Do I!”  _ Pidge says, eyes gleaming, as Rolo pries the raven-maine coon monstrosity from his shoulders and holds him out for Pidge to pet. “I always wanted one, but dad said no, too much of a pain to take care of.” She strokes the feathers and fur, and Beezer purrs contentedly.

“They’re grifters and con-artists,” Keith adds, answering her first question, even though Pidge appears to have already forgotten about it. “But they work with Shiro a lot, so I’m hoping they can help, even if they’ll charge us an arm and a leg for it—”

Rolo looks offended. “Are you kidding? One of our best customers and incidental problem-fixers could die. He’s way too big of an investment for our operation to let him go out that easily. We’ll do it for free. Well, mostly free.” He winks. “ ‘sides, for a Shirogane he’s alright. Coulda killed us, but he never did. He’s never put our business under. I figure maybe we owe him one to keep things even.”

“And you can definitely get it out of him?” Hunk asks, giving Nyma a skeptical look.

She smiles charmingly. “Information is part of our business model,” she says. “I could probably do it with personality alone, but pheromones and persuasive telepathy definitely don’t hurt my chances any. You’ll get your answers. Just make sure you tell Shirogane who bailed him out later.”

“You help us find him, I’ll make that very clear,” Keith says. “Let’s go.”

It doesn’t take long to escort the thieves through Sanctuary to the holding cell and introduce them to Griffin, keeping watch outside. Kolivan and Thace are already back in the cell, ineffectually questioning their nameless killer again, circling him like predators and snapping threats not even Keith can make out through the soundproofing of the cell. The man stays steadfastly silent, jaw clenched and seemingly uncaring of the circling vampires. 

Nyma isn’t particularly impressed by the sight of their killer through the window of the enclosure, and crosses her arms with a frown. “Mean looking brute, isn’t he?” she observes. 

“You could say that,” Griffin says, giving Nyma an odd look, like he’s not entirely sure why she’s here. Then again, Griffin is still pretty new to the cryptid world, and may not know what a succubus is, or how their powers work. Keith hadn’t known either, until Shiro had explained to him before going to meet Nyma. “He’s a werelion, and a cultist. Are you  _ sure  _ you want to go in there with him?”

“Positive,” Nyma says, as Griffin cracks open the door. “In fact, I’m going to be the  _ only  _ one in there with him. Everyone else, out. That means you four,” she adds, gesturing to Kolivan, Thace, Rizavi and Leifsdottir, and jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

“What is this interruption?” Kolivan asks, frowning.

“One I brought,” Keith says curtly. “I want to give her an opportunity to talk to the prisoner. Alone, if that’s what she wants.”

Thace narrows his eyes at Nyma, regarding her warily. “She could be an accomplice here to free him. We should not leave them alone.”

Nyma rolls her eyes, Beezer squawks indignantly in Pidge’s arms, and Rolo chuckles laconically. “Hey, we don’t want to get werelion’d either, here. We’re here to help out of the kindness of our hearts. And maybe an informer’s fee on the information. Depends on how good it is.”

“I trust them,” Keith says. “They’re thieves, but at least I know where they stand. They aren’t here to free him.”

“Besides, even if she  _ did  _ free him, he has nowhere to go,” Griffin adds. “We’re all out here. Me, Leifsdottir, Rizavi and Kinkade are enough to bring him down without risking infection for anyone else, and the rest of you could restrain the three of them. It’s a lose-lose situation.”

“We don’t do losing situations,” Rolo agrees. “Doesn’t get us very far.”

“Besides, if Nyma wants you out, it’s probably so she can work,” Pidge says practically, as she pets Beezer. “Right?”

“Right,” Nyma says. “Intimidation’s not the way I do things. Besides, unless you’re all packing aconite charms, I’d rather not have a potential small crowd following me out the door if I need to use a little extra persuasion. Got it?”

“Longer we talk about it, longer it takes to get your answers,” Rolo chimes in, obviously used to backing up his partner in crime.

That seems to do it for Kolivan, who finally nods slowly and exits the room. Thace follows, and at Griffin’s signal, so do Leifsdottir and Rizavi. The killer leers at the door as Nyma lets herself in, obviously not impressed by his latest interrogator. 

“Don’t get too close to him,” Griffin warns her. “He can transmit lycanthropy through blood or saliva. All it takes is a bite or an unlucky spit in your direction. Don’t touch him if you can avoid it.”

“I won’t need to,” Nyma says, giving them a wink. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Knock on the door if you need one of us to back you up or get you out of there,” Griffin says, undeterred.

“Won’t need to,” Nyma repeats, her tone sweet. “Back in a bit.” And she closes the door on them.

“This had better work,” Kolivan says.

“Like I said before,” Rolo says, settling himself calmly against the wall and crossing his arms, “Nyma’s a professional. If she says you get your answers in fifteen, you get your answers in fifteen. Sit back, relax, and have a drink until then.”

Griffin looks less than thrilled by this, and his heart rate is higher than it should be. Keith can smell the stress response coming off of him. “She should at least have a guard.”

“You’d only get in the way,” Rolo says, bored.

“Anyone in this building is under  _ my  _ protection,” Griffin says. “And they’re my responsibility. He’s a known killer.”

“Not the first known killer we’ve stolen from.”

“Will all of you just  _ calm down?”  _ Hunk says, exasperated. “Just let her work, and everyone chill. The faster we get answers, the faster we get Shiro.”

Keith couldn’t agree more with the sentiment. Rolo clearly does as well, since he just smiles to himself, and watches his pet purr and roll over in Pidge’s arms while she lavishes attention on him. 

Fifteen minutes goes unbearably slowly. Griffin and Kolivan both station themselves by the door, watching carefully through the window in case things go sour. Keith can see a bit of the window from where he leans against the nearby wall as well. Nyma must be aware of it, because she places herself deliberately within line of sight while she talks to their killer, and never approaches him so much at once. 

But at fifteen minutes almost to the dot she finally moves from her position back to the door. She slips through it quickly and shuts the door behind her, drawling, “Might want to turn the ventilation on in there for a bit before anyone else heads back in.”

Keith stands up immediately. “Did you get it?”

“Rolo?” Nyma asks, cocking her head to the side.

Her human partner in crime produces a small notebook from one of his pockets with surprising speed, clicking a pen and flipping open a page. “Hit it.”

She smirks, hand on one hip. “Name’s Raht, age thirty-eight, Sagittarius, blood type A, net worth absolutely zilch because he donated everything he has to the Cult of Galra. Occupation: cult officer, serves directly under the master, a witch named Haggar. Species: human, werelion infection for about a year and a half now, thinks he’s ‘ascended.’ Absolutely convinced he’s serving a higher power that’s going to wipe out ‘impure humanity’ and that his ‘ascension’ makes him one of the ‘chosen.’ Am I using enough air quotes yet to make it clear how crazy he is?” She pauses, and gives everyone in the room a very pointed look.

“I think we’re getting the picture,” Hunk says. “Wow.”

Nyma examines her nails as she continues. “He’s definitely been helping with a bunch of murders all over the city. Said he was considered ‘pure’ enough by his mistress to assist with handling the captives and running security and distraction while she did the actual blood work. He seemed proud of it, the sick bastard.” She shudders. “I might be a thief, but killing is too far, especially like  _ that.  _

“Anyway, he never called your Shirogane directly by name, but he talked about a recent mission where his mistress had him distract ‘the most heinous of her enemies’ away and capture him. I’m guessing if they think humanity is impure, they  _ really  _ hate Covenant.”

“Ex-Covenant,” Keith snaps immediately. He’s not surprised at all to find his voice echoing alongside Lance, Hunk and Pidge. 

“Whatever. Point is, they have your Shirogane. They took him to a temporary holding prison for their sacrifices before they get moved. It’s the old Olkari Memorial Hospital downtown—the one that was condemned after they moved to the other facility across town.” She sniffs in disgust. “He also offered me a job opportunity, said he could put in a good word for me to Haggar. Needless to say, I turned him down. No money in the world is worth  _ that.”  _

“Even we have limits,” Rolo agrees, jotting down one last line and tearing the page out of his little notebook. In surprisingly neat, even handwriting is a list of everything Nyma had rambled off, down to the very address of the hospital in question. He hands it over to Keith. “That all you need? Or do you want her to talk to him more?”

The others look genuinely impressed. “I guess I didn’t need to be worried after all,” Griffin says, surprised, as he exchanges glances with his three followers. 

“She  _ is  _ pretty amazing,” Lance says, regarding Nyma with sappy-eyed wonder. Keith, Hunk and Pidge all roll their eyes.

But Kolivan frowns, eyeing Nyma suspiciously. “That cannot be correct,” he says after a moment. “The old hospital was near our patrol route. Keith already patrolled it during one of our outings. There was no one there.”

“No I didn’t.” Keith gives him a bewildered look. “I was going to go there, but the map in Allura’s study said it had already been marked off. Lance and Hunk must have gotten it.”

“Wasn’t me,” Lance says, confused, as he finally breaks his gaze from Nyma. “I saw it was marked off already, so I figured the night crew got it. I’ve been looking through other places.”

“I’d remember if I looked through a hospital,” Hunk says with a shudder. “Hospitals are  _ creepy.  _ Condemned ones have  _ got  _ to be haunted. No thanks.”

Nyma and Rolo both raise their eyebrows, and the werelions frown. “We’ve been getting our search orders from you all,” Griffin says eventually. “Leifsdottir, did we ever get orders about a hospital?”

“Never,” she confirms. “We were always instructed to search in other locations.”

There’s a very long moment of silence, before Rolo finally says, “I think you’ve all been played. I know a con when I hear one.”

Keith’s heart beats faster at the thought. He trusts Lance, Hunk and Pidge implicitly, and they were the ones most often reporting information to the mice. On rare occasion Kolivan might have stepped into Allura’s penthouse to report his own findings, but Keith trusted him with his—and Shiro’s—lives too. He didn’t know Griffin or the rest of the werelions as well, but they’d fought so hard to get  _ away  _ from Galra, he doesn’t think they would deliberately mislead them.

Nobody here could be a traitor. Could they?

“The mice!” Hunk says. “The mice will remember who told them to mark it off, right?” He pulls out his phone, already calling Allura and putting her on speaker.

But the results, just a few minutes later, are even more confusing. They explain the situation to Allura, who dutifully checks with the mice in question maintaining the table. After several high-pitched indistinct squeaks, and several  _ very  _ distinctive  _ HAILS,  _ she finally returns to the line with a very perplexed answer. “The Aeslin say  _ all  _ of you reported the same building as searched, but empty, on any day you operated close to the area.”

Keith stares at the phone. “What? That doesn’t make  _ sense.”  _ He digs frantically through his memory. He remembers the nights he searched close to the area. He remembers seeing the building. He remembers being close to it, and considering suggesting entering it—

—and he remembers remembering it had already been done, and opting to move on to new buildings to try and save time, instead of wasting time on the same search again. 

But try as he might, he doesn’t ever remember going  _ in  _ it. He doesn’t remember what those halls look like, the doors or windows he might have snuck in by. He doesn’t remember jumping the fence or breaking the locks, or coordinating with his Marmora partners to go in together. He just remembers knowing it had already been done, and turning away, without questioning how he knew it was taken care of.

“Shit,” he whispers. “We  _ were  _ played.”

“I just remember thinking it was all good already,” Lance says, alarmed. “I never actually checked!”

“I never questioned the knowledge that it was already searched,” Kolivan agrees, with a deeply disturbed expression. The fact that he shows his feelings on the matter at  _ all  _ is a great rarity for him, and indicates just how bad the situation could be.

“We didn’t even think to ask about it,” Rizavi admits. “We figured you guys were coordinating it already. If you said it was taken care of, it probably was.”

“But what the heck could make  _ all  _ of us just forget that we hadn’t searched an  _ entire  _ building?” Hunk asks, bewildered. “Much less one as stupidly obvious as an entire condemned  _ hospital.  _ I mean, c’mon! Obvious, much?”

“Magic,” Pidge says, aghast. “Magic can do that. Memory charms. It wouldn’t even be hard—just stash them on the outskirts of the building, and anybody without a counter-charm would forget why they wanted to check the place out and leave.” 

“The same principle used in the underground,” Leifsdottir notes. “In the areas of the tunnels that lead to cryptid habitation.” Thace and Kolivan both nod grimly in agreement.

“Pretty clever,” Rolo admits. “It’s been right there the whole time, and you never knew.”

That hits like a knife to the heart. Shiro has been close for  _ days.  _ They’ve all lurked outside his prison for over a week without even realizing that he was there, without even knowing how to  _ question  _ that he might be there. He might have been sacrificed in a bloody, vile ritual tomorrow night and they never would have known how close they were to saving him.

But no more. They know where Shiro is. This ends  _ tonight.  _ “We’re going to get him,” Keith says.  _ “Now.”  _

“We can’t!” Pidge warns, gripping his wrist as he stalks past. “Not without counter charms, remember? Or do you want to rush all the way there and forget why you did again? Knowing the charms are there now won’t help you much.”

He skids to a halt. Shit. She is right about that, loathe as he is to admit it. But Shiro is normally the one getting a hold of or putting together their protective equipment, and he isn’t here. Keith doesn’t have the first idea how to go about getting counter-charms, especially for a large group of people.

“Allura,” he calls, to the speaker phone still in Hunk’s hand, “Do you have anything like that?”

“I’m afraid not,” she answers over the phone. “Shiro may have left a few protective charms with us throughout the course of his other missions, but it isn’t nearly enough to equip a rescue force.”

“Well,” Rolo drawls, “It’s a good thing you know a smuggler in the cryptid community, now isn’t it?” Nyma grins. 

Keith whips around to face him. “Can you get enough for the four of us?” he asks, gesturing at himself, Lance, Pidge and Hunk.

“More than four,” Kolivan says immediately. “I will take twenty five of my best men and women and assist in the attack.”

“Don’t forget us,” Griffin says, eyes narrowed. “You’re fighting a cult with werelions. We can’t get infected. We’re coming with, too. I’ve got twenty ready to volunteer at your order.” Kinkade, Leifsdottir, and Rizavi all nod in fierce agreement.

“Me too,” Coran joins in over the phone. “I daresay you’ll need a getaway driver. I imagine Shiro’s not in the best condition to run, if he hasn’t made his way back to us.”

Rolo whistles. “Got yourself an army,” he says. “I can get everyone equipped in an hour, but it ain’t gonna be cheap. I’ll defer the payment for now, since this whole snake cult thing sounds bad for business, but those materials aren’t easy to get a hold of—”

“I will cover the entire fee,” Allura interrupts him over the phone. “Whatever it takes, as long as you get those charms as fast as possible.”

“And this is why we like doing business with you people,” Nyma says with a grin. “We’ll go get the goods. Meet back here in an hour?”

“Agreed,” Keith says. “Kolivan, I know they can’t get close, but if they keep their distance, a few of your men can keep an eye on the place to watch anyone going in or out without being affected by charms.”

“I’ll assign them at once,” Kolivan says, immediately removing his phone and stepping aside. “We’ll be ready for the assault within an hour.”

“If we’re going in for a fight, we’d better get to work, too,” Lance says. “I bet Shiro’s got some toys we could use. Hunk’s gonna want his glasses, which means we will, too.” 

“I cannot  _ wait  _ to stun these jerks,” Hunk agrees, with a surprisingly vindictive look on his face. “They better not have hurt Shiro.” 

Keith nods with barely contained savage ferocity. If they  _ have  _ hurt Shiro, they’re going to pay. He’ll make sure of it. 

“Everyone back here in an hour,” he says. “If you’re not here, we move out without you. We’re getting Shiro back,  _ tonight,  _ no matter what it takes.”

The jubilant, high-pitched  _ HAIL!  _ of the mice on the other end of the line echoes in Keith’s very soul. 


	29. Homo sapiens: Part Five

“Here’s the plan: kick their asses. Make them understand they fucked with the wrong group of weirdos. And then get the fuck out of here.”   
—Antimony Price,  _ Tricks for Free _

**_An unknown cell in an undisclosed location, returning to the original narrator, after an unknown length of unconsciousness_ **

“Did he just make a noise?”

“I think he’s finally coming around!”

Shiro groans softly as awareness gradually returns to him. His mind swims, groggy and confused, struggling to understand what’s happening. Distantly, he hears scuffling, and the clink of metal, and soft, muffled words he can’t quite make out. He can’t tell if the voices are familiar or not. His muddled head insists  _ yes  _ and  _ no  _ at the same time, and he gives up on understanding.

Something deep inside, so ingrained it’s become instinctive, whispers to him to take stock of his situation. He’s still confused, but this is something his brain can do on autopilot, and he does, mentally checking himself over.

He hurts  _ everywhere,  _ is the first thing he registers. His head, his back, his limbs—there’s no part of him that isn’t sore and throbbing, and it feels like he’s gotten into at least a dozen fights and lost all of them. Nothing feels broken though, and it doesn’t feel like any part of him is cut open either, and his clothes don’t feel sticky. Probably no blood loss or fatal injuries if he moves, at least, even if he can’t remember how the hell he started hurting so bad.

Senses next. He’s on his back, and the surface he’s on his cold and hard and uncomfortable. The press of carefully situated weapons hidden all over the full length of his body is gone, which means he’s been disarmed—not a good sign. The air is damp and cool, and smells a little of mold. His mouth is dry and his throat is raspy, so he hasn’t had water in a while. The voices he does-and-doesn’t recognize get louder, and the shuffling gets closer, closer,  _ closer— _

_ Shit!  _

His eyes snap open. His vision swims, gummy with sleep, but he doesn’t need perfectly clear vision to see the gray face full of sharp teeth hovering over him, with a long, multi-jointed hand reaching for him.

_ “Shit!”  _ he voices, this time out loud, and lunges automatically. One hand grasps the reaching wrist and twists it aside, and the second darts out and cracks against his opponent’s sternum to stun the breath out of him and shove him away hard.

Or at least, that’s the  _ plan.  _ But Shiro’s aching limbs don’t cooperate, weak and uncoordinated as he is. He manages to slap the hand away, but his fingers only lightly brush the attacker’s shirt before his momentum falters and he collapses onto his side, groaning.

“Easy there, son!” his attacker says. “Easy. I’m not trying to hurt you. You’re a fast one, though. I’m sorry I startled you.”

“It’s your own fault for hovering over him like that, dad,” the second voice says, with fond exasperation. “You know how that looks with us. And you know he’s Covenant.”

“Ex-Covenant,” Shiro corrects out of sheer habit, before the rest of the conversation catches back up to him. He blinks in confusion, and squints at his opponent in the gloomy cell, struggling to make out his features.

It’s a bogeyman—he recognizes the characteristic extra joints in the hands, the grayish pallor, the elongated frame and too-sharp teeth. But this bogeyman has a mop of overgrown, disheveled brown hair, a messy beard, and kindly eyes behind a pair of cracked glasses. He keeps both of his hands up in a gesture of peace and non-aggression, and waits patiently for Shiro to acknowledge him. 

Shiro has never met him before in his life. Even so, he  _ recognizes  _ this man, from pictures on Pidge’s phone.

_ Oh, Pidge is going to be so happy about this,  _ he thinks, with honest relief.  _ She really did make the right bet by sticking around. Assuming I can get us out of here, anyway.  _

“Oh,” the second voice says. “You left them? Well, good for you then.” And that voice  _ is  _ familiar, one that Shiro knows personally, and when he turns to look—

—there he is. Matt Holt, sitting in the corner behind his father, regarding Shiro with genuine curiosity. He looks older than he did when Shiro saw him last time, with longer hair and a scar on one cheek, and his resemblance to Pidge really  _ is  _ uncanny. But it’s the same bogeyman that he met all those years ago. The one that started  _ everything.  _

“You,” Shiro breathes, eyes wide with shock. “I can’t believe I actually  _ found  _ you again, Matt. Which means…” His gaze turns to the older bogeyman, shoving himself upright, wincing as his shaking, uncoordinated limbs protest. “You must be Samuel Holt. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” 

Sam reaches out with one long arm to help him sit up against the wall, and this time Shiro doesn’t protest or fight back. “It’s just Sam, son,” he says with the automatic response of long habit, but he gives Shiro a peculiar look as he does.

Matt stares at him in shock. “How do you know our names?” he asks.

Shiro gives him a weak smile and nods his thanks to Sam, rubbing one of his sore arms. “I’ve met your sister. Pidge. It’s a long story. She’s looking for the two of you.”

“Pidge?” Matt says, and lets out a weak, slightly hysterical laugh. “She’s still using that old nickname I gave her?”

“Is she okay?” Sam asks urgently. “Is Katie alive? What about Colleen?”

“Both okay. They’re both  _ more  _ than okay,” Shiro promises them, and the two of them sag with obvious relief. 

“But how does an... _ ex _ -Covenant agent know my sister?” Matt asks, confused. “And how are you in America? And...and what  _ happened?”  _

“Your sister came to me,” Shiro says. “I’ve gained something of a reputation in Garrison City for helping people in the community. She wanted my help finding you two, actually.” They raise their eyebrows, and he shrugs. “It’s a much smaller world than we thought, I guess. Anyway, Matt and I have technically met, but we were ever properly introduced—my name is Takashi Shirogane. You can call me Shiro.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shiro,” Sam says, still looking a little perplexed by the situation but clearly willing to roll with it. He obviously recognizes the surname  _ Shirogane,  _ but to Shiro’s great relief, doesn’t immediately challenge him on it. 

A second later, Shiro understands why. “I’m afraid I’m still not entirely sure I understand what’s going on here. Matt told me you saved his life and then spared it years ago, and I sincerely thank you for that. If you’ve left the Covenant, and you know my wife and daughter, I assume you’re willing to help us. But I’m afraid I’m missing a few pieces.”

Shiro nods absently, looking around the room and taking stock of their situation as he does. “I’d be happy to fill you in on details in a little while, but for now let’s just go with  _ yes,  _ I’m going to help you. I think we’ve got bigger problems right now, though. Where are we?”

“Your guess is as good as ours,” Matt says with a sigh. “We’re prisoners. We have been for years. They move us between places like this all the time, but they always blindfold us and make sure we’re securely bound before they do.”

“We had no idea we were even in Garrison City until you mentioned it right now,” Sam adds. “I think we’re on a higher floor of a building, since we have to walk up or down steps when they move us. That’s all I could tell you.”

“Alright,” Shiro says slowly. “That’s not  _ great,  _ but I’ll work with it.” 

His surroundings don’t tell him much more than that, unfortunately. The room they’re in doesn’t have a window, or anything in the way of furniture. The walls and flooring look old, but not old enough to be breakable. The ceiling has the cheap plaster paneling of any industrial building, stained with age, and there’s only a single dim light bulb illuminating the room. The only items that really stand out are the new, sturdy-looking chains bolted to the wall, ending in cuffs securely wrapped around the left ankle of each of them. 

This is the first mistake on the part of his captors. His hands are free. The fact that they removed his guns and knives doesn’t make his hands any  _ less  _ lethal. He’ll need to use that mistake to his advantage at the best moment, or risk losing it. 

“How did I get here?” Is Shiro’s next question. His mind is still a little fuzzy on the details. He definitely doesn’t remember arriving. 

“The guards dumped you in here with us. You were already out cold,” Matt supplies. “That was already pretty weird, since they usually don’t give us cellmates. And then I recognized you from six years ago, and that was even crazier.”

“It’s possible they expected us to attack you,” Sam says. “We’ve been their prisoners long enough to know they think humanity are the scourge of the Earth, and think most cryptids believe the same.” He shakes his head in disgust. “As if we would attack an unarmed, unconscious man.”

“Most would, for a Covenant agent,” Shiro says. “I wouldn’t have held it against you if you did. My name has a lot of bloody history attached to it.”

Matt looks appalled. “You saved my life! Even if you were still Covenant, we wouldn’t have done  _ that.” _ Which, Shiro realizes, was exactly what had happened, since they hadn’t realized he’d left until after he’d regained consciousness. 

“I appreciate you sparing me anyway,” Shiro says. “Which leads to my next question, how long has it been since I got here?”

“They threw you in here at least a day ago,” Sam says. “I think. It’s a little hard to tell time here.”

Shiro curses under his breath. A  _ day?  _ His friends must be in a full on panic by now. He’s never outright vanished on them before. Even when Sanda had forced him to go into hiding away from his friends, he’d at least found a way to contact them. 

He groans, and rubs his temples. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “That complicates matters.” And he still can’t quite remember how he’d gotten into this mess to begin with. He knows he’d been investigating the ritual murders, and—

And,  _ shit.  _ If it’s already been a day...there’s going to be a ritual murder tomorrow evening, and he’s sitting in a jail cell who knows where, unable to do anything about it. 

“You okay?” Matt asks, concerned.

“Things got even  _ more  _ complicated,” Shiro says, not quite answering the question. “You mentioned guards. What are their schedules like?”

“They check on us every few hours,” Sam says. “Not during the day—we’re usually sleeping, so they don’t bother as much. They bring food at dawn and dusk, and take us out to use the restroom three times a night. Things change on days when they pull us in for jobs, though, and that’s random.” 

He looks disgusted at last words. Whatever ‘jobs’ the cult uses the Holts for, it’s clear they’re unwilling participants.

“When was the last check-in?”

“Maybe an hour ago?” Matt says, exchanging glances with his father. “There’s at least one more to go, for dinner and the last restroom break of the night.”

“Is there anyone outside right now? Or have they soundproofed this place against bogeyman hearing?”

Both their eyebrows raise at that, but after a moment, Sam says, “Nobody. When they take us to the restroom it’s just down the hall, and I see people on the other side of the door sometimes. They don’t blindfold us for that. But there’s never anyone posted outside our door for us.”

“Do they carry weapons?”

“Some do,” Matt says slowly. “Depends on if it’s the original cult, or the... _ other  _ group that absorbed them.” He shudders. “They call themselves Galra, and a bunch of them are lycanthropes. Their mistress doesn’t let them handle us too often. I think she wants to avoid us being infected. The ones who aren’t lycanthropes have knives and guns.”

Shiro freezes. “Galra?”

“Yes,” Sam says, and frowns at Shiro. “Son? You alright? You’ve gone pale.” 

But Shiro is too focused on Matt’s words to hear Sam’s question.  _ Lycanthropes. Galra.  _

_ Mistress.  _

_ Flashing yellow eyes, pale hair, cold words, an invasive presence in his head, a promise of debts owed.  _

He takes a shuddering breath in, and his fingers dig reflexively into the forearm he’s massaging the soreness out of. The warehouse slams back into his mind in a flash, and everything that came with it: his inability to move, the awful visions of murdering each of his friends so callously, and a promise of being  _ studied.  _ He’s already lost a day in her control. What has she done? What might she have done to his friends?

“Son?” Sam looks genuinely concerned as he eases his way close enough to put a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, dragging his ankle-chain after him. “Are you alright?”

“This... _ mistress,”  _ Shiro says. “Is she a Johrlac?”

Both Sam and Matt look startled for a moment, but then slowly nod. Matt suppresses a shudder. “She’s awful. She pulls all the strings here. Everyone is under her thumb.”

_ And so are they. And so am I.  _

_ There’s no time left. We have to get out of here. Now.  _

“Does she ever come here? To the prison cells?” Shiro asks. Cautious. Hopeful.

“Never,” Sam says. “She has cultists and devotes that bring us to her, when she needs to pick our brains.” 

“How do you know about her?” Matt asks. “Did she mind whammy you?”

“I think so,” Shiro says. “She tricked me into coming across her alone, and then...well, I ended up knocked out, and next thing I know, I’m waking up here.” 

“Yeah,” Matt says bitterly. “She’s good at catching people unawares like that. The same thing happened to us, more or less. A few years ago, now.” 

“You’ve been prisoners this whole time?” Shiro asks, taking a good look at the both of them again. 

Now that he’s really paying attention, he can pick out a few extra details he hadn’t noticed before. Bogeymen always look long and thin, due to their elongated limbs and extra joints, but these two look a little  _ too  _ thin. They’ve been fed just enough to keep them alive and functioning, but not enough to grow strong enough to fight back. Both droop wearily, both have dark lines under their eyes, and Sam’s beard isn’t well groomed, which means he probably hadn’t been given an option to care for it for some time. 

It made sense. Pidge and Colleen hadn’t had contact for years; it stands to reason that’s because they’ve been  _ captured  _ for years, too. And Pidge had said her father and brother were both scientists. Even lazy bogeymen are stronger than the average human and can be dangerous when pushed, but half-starved bogeymen with no combat training weren’t likely to put up much of a fuss after a few months. 

It makes sense, but it’s still another thing entirely to see it. 

“Yes,” Sam says wearily. “We were caught in Europe, while on an expedition to study older forms of magic. We’ve been stuck with this  _ Galra  _ group ever since.”

“Is that what you were doing when I found you?” Shiro asks, giving Matt a curious look.

He nods. “There were ruins in that area where we met. We were hoping to explore them for information about old magic, like Dad said. Only, that troll had decided they were his, and he didn’t like me invading.” He winces. “And then just a week after that,  _ she  _ got us. It was a pretty bad expedition overall.”

“Well, we’re not staying any longer,” Shiro says, pushing himself to his feet. The soreness in his body is still there, but after a chance to rest, it’s easy enough for him to disregard it. “I’m letting myself out of here, and I’m taking you two with me.”

They give him incredulous looks. “You honestly think you can escape?” Sam asks. “Past lycanthropes, cultists, and anything else out there?”

“I think we don’t have many other options,” Shiro says, as he shuffles his way to the end of his ankle chain to study the door. “And I know I’m not interested in staying any longer. We need to get out when the right opportunity presents itself. If we’re around that johrlac, she can make us stop moving. That means we need to risk the guards instead.”

The door is locked from the outside, of course, probably with a deadbolt. There’s nothing to pick on the inside, and it’s too sturdy to bust down without drawing attention to the noise.

“The normal cultists, maybe,” Matt says. “They’re mostly human. But they’ve got  _ werelions  _ out there. You can’t fight those!”

Truth be told, Shiro’s not confident he can, either. He doesn’t have any silver, which is the only thing that will really hurt them. He’s hoping close quarters might slow them down a little, or that they can use stealth to their advantage, if he comes across any of those. Even if he does, the risks of failure are high—if he gets bitten, or accidentally gets any of their blood in his eyes, nose, mouth or open wounds, he’s at risk of being infected himself.

But when it comes down to it, he’ll risk the infection. Contracting lycanthropy would be unfortunate, and would immediately cut his life expectancy down significantly. He’d be forced to deal with an awful disease for the rest of his life, what was left of it. It’s a terrifying prospect, and a year ago it would have been his worst fear—not something he would choose willingly. 

But it is  _ manageable.  _ If there’s one thing the incident at Garrison U has taught him, it’s that his mind will still be  _ his,  _ once he learns control. He could spend a few months rehabilitating with Griffin’s lycanthropes at Sanctuary and learn to live with it. 

He has no doubt anything Galra’s fabled  _ mistress  _ does to him here will be worse than anything lycanthropy can throw at him. And he knows he doesn’t have much longer before she comes for him. He’ll take a few confused months as a paranoid, half-rabid werelion over whatever she has planned for him.

“I’ll figure something out,” is all Shiro says in answer. And at Matt’s doubtful look, he gives him a reassuring smile and says, “C’mon, I know you don’t know me that well, but you  _ did  _ see me take down a troll in single combat. I’ve only gotten better since then. Have a little faith in me.” 

“That... _ is  _ true,” Matt concedes. “You scared the hell out of me that day. I’m glad you’re on our side.”

The door is a no-go. Much as Shiro hates it, he’ll have to wait for plan B, ambushing the guards on their check-in round. There’s no window in the door, so they’ll have to open it to make sure their prisoners are accounted for. Not a problem with a pair of half-starved bogeyman.  _ Definitely  _ a problem—for them—with an angry ex-Covenant agent raring to leave. 

Shiro sighs, and gives Matta an apologetic look. “Yeah. I’m sorry about frightening you that day. It’s no excuse, but at the time, I didn’t know any better. I’d been taught that everything not human was cruel and evil, and had to be eradicated.”

Sam’s expression is sad. “It truly is a shame,” he says. “The Covenant could have had so much potential. And yet they waste their talents on wholesale slaughter and are taught what they do is right.” He shakes his head.

“You’re not wrong,” Shiro says. He closes his eyes a moment, but then gives Matt a weak, shaky smile. “Actually, I’ve always hoped I’d come across you again one day so I could thank you. The day we met...that was the day I first started to question everything I’d ever been taught.”

Matt’s eyes are wide. “Is that why you let me go?” he asks, after a long, silent moment. “I was...I was  _ so  _ sure you were going to kill me that day.”

“I almost did,” Shiro admits. Acknowledging that hurts—admitting how close he’d come to doing something so wrong and utterly unforgivable  _ hurts _ —but at the same time, it’s a weight off his shoulders. “I came close. But...you were so  _ scared  _ of me. I hadn’t known bogeymen  _ could  _ be scared. We were taught they spread nightmares and terrors like a plague. And you just begged to be able to see your family again, instead of threatening me.” 

He closes his eyes. “I saw myself in your eyes and for the first time, I asked myself who the real monster there was. I didn’t like the answer I gave myself. So...I let you go.”

Both Matt and Sam watch him, silent. There’s no judgement in their expressions, and that alone is enough to let Shiro keep going.

“I started to question after that. The Covenant taught me at least  _ one  _ wrong thing, about bogeymen. So they could have been wrong about other things. I didn’t like that I could be killing more innocent  _ people  _ that just wanted to go home to their families, because of lies that I’d been taught. And I didn’t know how to figure out what was the lie, and what was real. So I left.” 

Sam gives him a pitying look. “That must have been hard for you.”

Shiro snorts. “Your wife said almost the same thing,” he notes. 

“Colleen has a lot of sense,” Sam says, with a fond smile. “And that doesn’t change the truth of the matter. You made the right choice, but it’s never easy to turn your back on everything you’ve ever known.”

“Maybe,” Shiro says. “I could never support what they do now.” He turns to Matt. “But I never would have known it was wrong to begin with if I never met you. So thanks for that.”

“I mean, I didn’t do all that much,” Matt says sheepishly. “Just almost got killed twice, and begged like a baby not to die. But uh, you’re welcome. You seem pretty cool now—maybe if we ever get out of this, we can be friends.”

Escaping. Right. “That’d be nice,” Shiro says. “But first, I need to get you out of here.”

They’ll have to wait until the next guards come by. From what Sam and Matt said, that was at least an hour from now. Shiro hates to wait, but it  _ will  _ give him time to prepare.

Starting with their chains. If they’re going to get anywhere, they’ll need to get their ankle cuffs off. There’s nothing in the room he can fashion into a lockpick—they haven’t even been left furniture to break. 

But...he looks down at himself. His captors had taken his jacket, and had obviously patted him down for noticeable weapons like knives and guns. He was in a dark sweater, gloves, jeans and boots, but they were all still  _ his.  _

That was mistake number two from his captors. 

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, giving him an odd look, as Shiro starts toying with the waistline of his jeans. A moment later, his eyes widen as Shiro finds the edge of the flexible garotte hidden in the lining, and carefully slides it out, bit by bit. It’s joined in short order by the penknife they missed in one of his boots, and the set of lockpicks hidden in another hemline. 

“Are you even for real?” Matt asks, incredulous.

“Preparedness is key,” Shiro quotes absently. His captors had found more than he’d like, but he could make do with this. They’d underestimated him. He’d make them pay for that.

“This is a little  _ too  _ prepared,” Matt says. “Do you hide things in  _ all  _ of your clothes? How many weapons do you have on you at any given time?”

“A lot.” He never gives an exact number. Exact numbers can be exactly searched for. Always let them think you have less than you do. “Humans are weaker than almost any other cryptid species. It’s only our adaptiveness that lets us hold our own in less than ideal situations.” 

“This is insane,” Matt says, shaking his head.

Shiro shrugs. “I’ve given up on most of my Covenant teachings, but being ready for anything isn’t one of them. I’m not even as enthusiastic about always being armed as others. My mother had a technique for hiding darts and needles in her hair.”

“You guys just got scary for a whole new reason,” Matt mutters, with an expression of disbelief and horror that looks almost comical on a bogeyman’s face.

“Just remember, I’m on  _ your  _ side now,” Shiro reminds him.

“And we’re certainly thankful for it,” Sam says diplomatically. “But tell me, son, what  _ is  _ the plan?”

Shiro sits back down on the floor, eyeing the door once for eavesdroppers before speaking low under his breath. The bogeymen will hear him easily. “When the guards come, I’m jumping them,” he explains, as he starts to examine his ankle cuff. “Then we sneak our way out.”

“And you’re sure that will work?” Matt asks, skeptical.

“You said they don’t bother to check as much during the day, right?” Shiro asks, inserting the lockpicks on the cuff. It’s an awkward angle, but he’s freed himself from worse. “They’re probably keeping a low profile during the day. It might mean they have less manpower, or are out handling tasks for the cult. It makes it our best chance to run, as long as we’re careful.”

“I’m willing to try it,” Sam says grimly. “I don’t care what it takes—we need to get out of here. We can’t risk continuing to help Galra and the johrlac with the ritual.”

Shiro’s head snaps up. “Ritual?” he asks, pausing in the middle of freeing himself. “The blood rituals that have been going on recently?”

“The very same,” Sam says grimly. “It’s the reason we were kidnapped. My life’s work has revolved around magics of all kinds—studying them in order to find ways to make certain types of magic more accessible. The intent behind my research was to promote positive types of magic like healing or creation. Unfortunately…”

“It goes both ways,” Shiro says grimly. He remembers Pidge’s enthusiastic ramblings about magic and her father’s work, when he’d first met her. He’d feared it could be used for negative reasons, as well. His fears clearly hadn’t been unfounded. 

“Dad knew a little about blood and ritual magic before we were taken,” Matt says. “It’s not nice stuff to study, but there are some foundational elements between that kind of magic and others. We were hoping to crack the base code between all of them, so to speak, so we could figure out the essentials for making magic more accessible to everyone  _ without  _ having to resort to extremes like murder.”

“And the witch found out about your research somehow, and decided to forcibly recruit you,” Shiro guesses, returning to the cuff on his ankle. 

“That’s about the size of it,” Sam says tiredly. “She’s quite an expert in blood magic herself, but wanted extra brainpower to put towards her...project. She has access to a number of old, very rare books on blood and ritual magic, which has made my understanding of that particular branch of spellcasting even greater. Unfortunately, it is...not a pleasant branch of magic.” He shudders.

Shiro frowns. “We know they’re trying to summon a snake god of some kind,” he says. “A big one. We’ve already found two ritual circles, and suspect there’s been at least two more. Pidge has been trying to decode them...using your own notes, ironically.”

Sam closes his eyes. “I wish my daughter wasn’t involved in this,” he says after a moment. “Pidge is brilliant—when she grew older, I had planned to take her with me on my expeditions, alongside Matt. But blood magic is an awful thing.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “And I’m sorry. If we had the resources to not get her involved, I absolutely wouldn’t have. She’s the only one who understands how magic works well enough to help us figure out what’s going on, though. And we’ve made good progress so far.” 

The ankle cuff  _ clicks  _ as Shiro finally picks it, and snaps open. He eases it from around his boot, massaging his ankle gently—even through the thick material of the shoe, the cuff had still been so tight it hurt. He smiles confidently at the other two as he tosses it aside.

But neither Sam nor Matt look hopeful. Instead, Matt says softly, “Dad—your notes from six years ago—they wouldn’t be enough, would they?”

“No,” Sam says softly. “Some of the fundamentals would be there, but the details…”

Shiro’s heart sinks a little. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Pidge seemed to be doing okay with the translations so far.”

Matt swallows. Sam hesitates, then says, “The johrlac isn’t summoning a snake god, Shiro. She’s summoning something much, much bigger. She captured us specifically to review her base work and elaborate on a blood ritual spell to do just that. One that’s never existed before.”

Shiro’s sinking heart plummets into his stomach. “How big?” he asks, voice sharp.

“Very,” Sam answers grimly. “I’m not even sure exactly what it is. Only that it comes from very,  _ very  _ far away on the dimensional scale, and it’s large enough that our reality probably won’t survive its coming.” 

“With only a few dozen deaths to trigger it?” Shiro asks, incredulous. “No spell can do that. I don’t care how good the sorcerer is, or the ritual. It’s not  _ possible.”  _

“If it was only in one city, you’d be correct,” Sam says. “But it isn’t just in your city, Shiro. This is a project that’s been going on for years. Ritual murders have been done in a dozen cities across the whole country, forming one enormous, continent-sized ritual circle.”

Shiro’s blood ices over, and he stares in horror. “No.”

Matt nods, expression disgusted yet resigned. “She sends agents to other cities to consecrate them ahead of time with all kinds of murders. It makes the rituals take easier. This is the last stop on the tour, before…” He swallows.

“We think it’s taking longer, this time, though,” Sam adds. “She was angry with us, because the ritual was going to take another few months to complete, and there was no way we could speed it up.” 

Matt shudders, long arms wrapping around himself protectively, and Shiro can’t help but pity him. A johrlac angry at them...he knows how that feels. “There wasn’t enough blood,” he says after a moment. “Not enough murders seeding the ritual to start. Somebody stopped’em. She was real angry about that.” He hesitates, then glances at Shiro. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Shiro nods quietly. “Me, and some friends of mine,” he says. He’s not about to go into names. He doesn’t want anyone else to be targeted, if they’re being listened in on. “They tried a few times, here. They did manage to kill some people, but we stopped them before it got too far.”

“Thank the universe,” Sam whispers, relieved. “We may still have a little time yet.”

“We’ve been trying to stall her,” Matt explains wearily. “She can’t fully mind control us if she wants us to actually be creative or innovative for her ritual at all. She tried, but we couldn’t focus like she wanted with her compulsions, it just kind of turned us into mindless drones that couldn’t think about anything but her. So we’ve been messing up symbols, or taking longer to ‘research.’ It’s not easy to pull one over on a johrlac though, and when she catches us…” 

He shudders again, and hugs himself harder. Sam, although obviously just as wounded by the memories, puts an arm around his son’s shoulders comfortingly.

“We’re not going to let it keep going,” Shiro says, eyes narrowing. “We’re getting out of here, remember? Once we do, I can give that information to my contacts, and we’ll do everything we can to stop this.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sam says. “If you can get us out of here, I’ll do everything in my power to help.”

“Good. We’re going to need all the help we can get.” Shiro crosses over to them and starts working on Sam’s ankle cuff with his lockpicks. “The ritual—is there anything we can do to stop it here?”

Sam shakes his head. “The killings around the city all link back to one large circle at the center,” he explains. “One giant circle of killings throughout the city powers the main one that gathers the power through blood magic and death.  _ That  _ circle is linked to all of the other ones in the other cities. Destroying it might delay the ritual, but the johrlac is smart—she keeps it in another part of the city entirely.”

Matt nods in agreement. “Like we said before, we get pulled out to supervise parts of the ritual. They blindfold us when they take us there, so we don’t know where it is. But it’s big—enough to store all the bodies they’ve killed, because they all have to be arranged in the final circle in a very specific way.” He closes his eyes and shudders. “Those poor people…”

“There’s nothing we can do for them now. All we can do is make sure there aren’t more,” Shiro says. Sam’s ankle cuff  _ clicks  _ open in his hand, and he moves on to Matt’s.

“There will be more regardless,” Sam says. “In every city we’ve been in so far, she recruits snake cultists to do the grunt work. Her Galra agents move with her from city to city, or go ahead to prepare the next ritual location. The cultists get her hooked into the local community, and do her bidding with the expectation of getting a snake god and a wish out of it. On rare occasions she’ll pick one to ‘ascend’ and become part of her Galra lycanthropes, but usually she kills all of them when she’s done and adds them to the power of the ritual.”

“And of course they won’t believe she could turn on them,” Shiro says grimly. “Even if they weren’t part of a brainwashed cult organization, she’s a johrlac. They’ll believe anything she says, and be extra easy to manipulate. Even the line about ‘ascending’ as a werelion.”

“Exactly.” Sam shakes his head. “It’s an awful thing in the making. I’m disgusted with myself to know I’m a part of it.”

Shiro smiles bitterly. “Trust me when I say I know exactly how you feel. But at least you didn’t have a choice in the matter. I promise, we’re going to put a stop to it.”

Matt’s ankle cuff clicks open as well. He rubs his foot with relief. “Thanks. I guess the one good bit of news here is you probably  _ aren’t  _ intended to be a sacrifice. They’ve never brought any of the other victims to us before.”

Shiro’s lips press together. “I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. Based on what she said when she kidnapped me, she has...other plans for me.” 

Sam frowns. “Other plans? What other plans could she have?”

“We think she’s doing something to experiment with cryptid abilities,” Shiro says after a moment. He explains about Macidus’ unusually enhanced incubus abilities, and the rarity of lycanthropy- _ l.  _ “She doesn’t even look like a normal johrlac, but when I expressed confusion over that, she just said it was the price of evolution. And she said she’d like to ‘study’ me. I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to stick around to find out.”

Matt shudders. Sam looks thoughtful. “I hadn’t considered the rarity of lycanthropy- _ l,”  _ he says after a moment. “They’re so prevalent here, but then again, they have access to the virus and can easily transmit it amongst themselves. I didn’t think about how rare it is to begin with, even amongst lycanthropy cases.” His frown grows deeper. “What is the connection between a massive blood ritual, and the study of cryptid evolution?”

“I don’t know, but it can’t be good, and I’m not interested in becoming one of her experiments,” Shiro says flatly. “We’re getting out of here as soon as possible. Which brings me to my next question: Is there anyone else like you here? Someone working for the johrlac or Galra against their will, or who are being mind controlled?”

Matt shakes his head. “Not that we know of,” he says. “We tried to reach out to people if we could. See if somebody on the inside could help us get out. We had no luck. In the rare instance we met anybody friendly they were sacrificed within a few hours. Everyone else seems to be a willing cultist.”

Shiro presses his lips together for a moment. “That’s unfortunate in one way,” he finally says. “It sounds like we won’t have any allies when we break out. On the other hand, there’s one way it works for us.”

“And that is?” Sam asks, after a long moment.

Shiro slides the lockpicks and the penknife inside his sleeve, and carefully tests the pull of the garotte. “It means I don’t have to hold back,” he says quietly. If there was even a chance anyone between him and the door was an innocent victim, he’d have to try and find a way to spare them, and it might cost them their escape. Since there isn’t...he’ll use everything he has to get them out of here.

Matt shivers again. “ _ Really  _ glad you’re on our side,” he repeats fervently.

“But we’re with you,” Sam adds. “These people have done terrible things. We need to escape so we can keep them from doing  _ more  _ terrible things. We’ll support you.” He glances at the door. “I figure they’ll be by in a little less than an hour.”

“Good. Get up and move around some. Get yourself limbered up and used to moving again,” Shiro instructs. He then takes his own advice, taking the time to walk, stretch, and loosen up his sore muscles to prepare for the inevitable escape. They do the same, not nearly so vigorously as he does, but at least enough that they’re not limping or stumbling on shaking limbs.

When the enemy inevitably comes, they’re ready. Both Matt and Sam perk up suddenly, and then gesture frantically at the door. Shiro nods, positions himself accordingly, and waits.

It doesn’t take long. One of the guards cracks the door open, snapping, “Up and at’em. Bathroom break, and then breakfast—”

Shiro hits him hard from the side, smashing him into the wall before he can so much as shout in surprise. There’s a nasty  _ crack  _ as his head slams against the wall, and he slumps, a trail of blood dribbling down after him.

His partner stares in shock for a moment, before turning to try and yell for help. Shiro whips the garrotte around his neck before he can utter a sound, dragging him back by the wire immediately. The guard thrashes against him, clawing at the wire cutting into his neck, choking vainly for air. With a sharp, practiced  _ twist-snap,  _ Shiro jerks his hands, something cracks in the guard’s neck, and he goes completely limp.

“Drag them both inside, hurry,” Shiro says, ignoring Sam’s and Matt’s stares as he detangles the partially bloodied garrotte from the guard’s neck and hauls him in. A quick search of his person reveals a long knife, probably used to threaten the prisoners into behaving. The second has a matching blade and the keys. Shiro appropriates everything, locks the prison door behind them with the guards inside, and looks around. 

“Any idea which way?” he asks them.

“We turn left when we’re led out,” Sam supplies, pointing down the hallway. Shiro nods, selects one of his brand new knives to have at the ready alongside the garotte, and leads the way.

They sneak down the hall, and Shiro pokes his head into every door they pass along the way. There don’t seem to be other prisoners, or even other guards. Several of the rooms have windows, but they’re firmly boarded up with hefty wood, and would take too long to pry off. That excludes them as a manner of escape, which means unfortunately they’re just going to have to find a door.

Sam and Matt are good at staying silent at least, even if they’re obviously not in the best shape. Bogeymen are excellent manipulators of sound, in that regard. They can throw their voices very far, but people rarely think about how they can be perfectly silent if they want to be. All the better for sneaking up on unsuspecting victims to scare the daylights out of them for a laugh, or to hide in a closet for hours on end without being noticed. It’s a little unnerving to have two bogeymen at his back that he can’t actually hear, but Shiro’s had enough experience with both Keith’s and Pidge’s brands of perfect silence to not let it get to him. 

They reach their first obstacle, a single guard at the entrance to their hall, just on the other side of the door. He hasn’t noticed them, and he never will. Shiro signals for Matt to open the door on his mark, and whips the garotte around the guard’s throat again before he can so much as turn to see who’s leaving. He’s dragged back into the hallway, the door is closed to prevent any sound carrying, and with another efficient  _ twist-snap,  _ he’s no longer a problem either. They leave him in another of the empty rooms and continue.

The hallway outside the first one looks similar, but it also feels familiar. They work their way along the hall, taking care of three more guards slowly and carefully, and that feeling of familiarity grows. But it’s only when they turn the corner and come across an abandoned nurse’s station that Shiro realizes they’re in some kind of medical center.

“We’re probably in Olkari Memorial,” he murmurs to his companions. “It’s a hospital that was condemned when a new location was built. Makes sense, with the boarded windows.”

“How does knowing where we are help us?” Matt asks. 

“First, it means we’re still in Garrison City itself,” Shiro says. “We weren’t moved outside it, which is good. Second, if we get outside, it’s still in a fairly busy section of Garrison City. They won’t be able to do a full manhunt for us without attracting attention to squatters in the condemned hospital, and we might be able to disappear.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Sam says. “If we can get to an exit.”

Which  _ will  _ be a problem. If they’re in a hospital, the place is big, and has the potential to hold a lot of manpower, while also being a maze. All they can do is try, though, so Shiro presses forward, and they follow.

They make it through two more hallways and find a flight of stairs before an alarm starts to blare over the intercom system of the hospital. It’s kept soft, so as to not attract outside protection presumably, but even so it’s clear they’ve been found out. 

“No more stealth,” Shiro says. “Speed’s more important.  _ Move.”  _

They move, vaulting down the stairwells. “We always went down three flights!” Sam hisses in his ear from six feet away, and Shiro glances at the sign to the door they just exited. If Sam’s experience is correct, it will put them one floor below ground level, in some kind of parking garage. 

“We’ll have to get off one before,” Shiro says. He can jack a car, but if their captors know what they’re doing, nothing’s been left unattended. Better to get to a window or a door as fast as possible. Open air and visibility is their friend here.

They don’t even make it to the ground floor. On the second level, three cultists burst through the doorway, aiming for the stairs going up. They freeze in surprise when they realize their escapees are already there, before one lifts a gun in a panic and aims at them.

Shiro hits him first, before he can fire, planting one of his stolen knives into the man’s throat. He makes a soft  _ “Glack!”  _ of surprise before collapsing, dropping his weapon with it. One down.

The other two try to attack him at once in the stairwell with their own knives. Shiro deflects one blade with his other stolen knife, but the second cuts a neat gash in his right shoulder. He curses, and the man leers. “I’ll give your blood to the god of—”

Whoever he tends to feed Shiro’s blood to, Shiro never knows. Long, gray, spider-like fingers wind themselves around his neck and squeeze, as Sam looms behind him like something out of a children’s horror story. The man gags. Shiro ignores him in favor of taking down the first attacker he’d deflected the blade of, with a neat punch and a slash to the throat. Two down.

The final man in Sam’s grip writhes for a moment before his eyes roll, and he sags. Sam releases him immediately, and the man drops to the floor. He’s still breathing, but as long as he’s not going to be following them, Shiro doesn’t care. He appropriates the first man’s handgun and slips any knives he can find into his belt. 

“Leave the bodies and move,” he orders. 

“I hate having to do that,” Sam says with a sigh, as he steps over the bodies and follows after Shiro, a wide-eyed Matt in tow. “All it does is fuel the propaganda against bogeymen.”

“Better that than dead,” Shiro says, gun at the ready, as he whips around the stairwell and down the next flight. “They’d have murdered you without a second thought.”

“I know,” Sam says. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

Privately, Shiro agrees. Killing is never easy. That doesn’t mean he can afford to think about it right now. Later, when it’s over, and they’re safe, he can worry about it.

They reach the ground floor, and Shiro glances back at the two. “Make for a door or window. Anything to get outside. Ready?”

“Ready,” both confirm. Shiro nods and bursts through the door.

The hallway on the other side isn’t too much of a problem. There’s a few guards, but they’re not expecting their prisoners to have gotten this far. Between an increasingly armed Shiro and two bogeyman, they’re disabled or killed easily. Shiro shoves each of the doors open on the way, but like on the upper level, each one has boarded up windows that would take far too long to break through.

So they keep going. They reach the end of the hallway, and just like that, there’s the entrance lobby. It’s run down and uninviting, but at the far end are a set of glass doors that  _ aren’t  _ boarded up. There’s warning tape criss-crossed over them, and signs posted on the wilted grass outside to stay out, but it’s an  _ exit.  _

There’s also no less than twenty cultists between the door and them. They, like the others, seem genuinely surprised that Shiro and the Holts made it this far.

All but one. He stands near the old check-in desk, arms at his sides, watching the hallway like he was just waiting for Shiro and the others to emerge. His head is shaved, but he has strange sideburns and an odd goatee. 

_ The killer.  _ The one who had tricked them, and served the johrlac faithfully. Raht, the johrlac had called him. “You,” Shiro snarls, glaring at him. 

The man’s eyes narrow, and he glances at them cooly. “Capture each of them  _ alive,”  _ he instructs to the room at large. “The mistress will have the heads of anyone who kills  _ any  _ of her prisoners before she is done with them.”

As one, the cultists charge.

“Stay close,” Shiro orders over his shoulder, and he, too, leaps into the fray.

Their one advantage is that the cultists can’t kill them, which means firearms stay safely holstered. Shiro has  _ no  _ such restriction, and he shoots as he needs to. Three of the charging cultists drop dead immediately, and it makes the others hesitate for a few precious seconds, enough for Shiro and his charges to gain ground.

But sheer numbers overwhelm them eventually. Shiro’s clip runs empty, and he can’t replace the firearm from another of the bodies, leaving him with just his stolen knives. The moment he loses his ranged power, the press of swarming, crazed cultists becomes much more dangerous. Shiro is far more skilled and trained than they are with knives, but ten men and women wildly swinging blades is still enough to overcome even a master.

Behind him, Matt and Sam struggle as well. Shiro tries to keep the cultists focused on him, but it’s difficult, and Matt and Sam don’t even have weapons to use to defend themselves. In a perfect scenario, they’d be much stronger than their attackers, but both of them are half starved and weak. Their opponents are full of blind fervor and relentless loyalty to their mistress and the false god she represents. 

Even so, they  _ almost  _ make it. Shiro is bleeding from a dozen minor gashes, he’s lost two of his knives, and the swarm of cultists trying to grab him slows him to a crawl. But Matt is still at his back, and they’re still pushing forward, and the door is within ten beautiful feet. He can  _ see  _ the first rays of sunlight rising. If they can just make it—

But Matt suddenly screams,  _ “Dad!”  _ and Shiro whips around at the horrified shriek, already lifting a blade to throw. These knives aren’t really made for it, but he’ll make it work—

—but it wouldn’t do him any good. Raht is gone, but an enormous, hulking man-lion beast has replaced him, the same third form that Sendak and Haxus had used all those months ago now. His enormous clawed hands are wrapped firmly around Sam’s bony waist and wrists, and no matter how much Sam struggles like a twitching spider, he can’t break free.

“Drop your weapons, Shirogane,” the werelion orders. “Both of you will surrender. Or I will bite him.”

“You said you can’t kill us!” Matt yells frantically. 

“I do not intend to,” Raht answers. “Lycanthropy is not death. It is ascension. But if it isn’t a gift you desire, then it is a threat. Drop your weapons.”

The press of cultists withdraws away from them, awed and watching. ‘Ascension’  _ is  _ a gift to them, a hotly desired one clearly, and they seem eager to see how this so-called holy rite pans out. 

“Your mistress wouldn’t want sick servants,” Shiro counters. “They’re needed to direct your ritual. He can’t do that if he doesn’t survive his first transformation.”

“The ritual is nearly complete. He won’t need to live  _ that  _ long. But he has a much better chance of living at all if you drop your weapons,” is the werelion’s only answer. 

Shiro grits his teeth. The exit is  _ ten feet  _ away. He could make a break for it. He’s almost there. If he could get out, he could find the rest of his team, come back for an assault, rescue them—

—but he can’t make that call for Sam. The bite might not transmit lycanthropy to him. But it  _ could.  _ He’d be condemning Sam to an agonizing disease, one that he might not even survive as long due to his age. Pidge would  _ never  _ forgive him. 

And he can’t even guarantee that the gain would be worth it. He could run, and bring back a rescue team, alongside medical professionals who could administer the lycanthropy tincture. But by the time he came back with help, they probably would have packed up and moved again, and he’ll have lost them for good. Sam would lose his chance. 

Raht’s teeth edge closer to Sam’s arm, thick ropes of drool dangling from his fangs. Shiro swears in frustration, but throws down his weapons.

“Take them,” Raht orders. The cultists swarm forward, hands fastening on Shiro’s wrists, digging the blades out of his sleeves and dragging the garotte wrapped around his wrist away. Matt, wild-eyed with panic, lets them swarm him as well, never taking his eyes off of his father. 

Shiro turns to snap at the werelion to honor their deal. But before he can so much as open his mouth, something cracks him over the back of the head, and his eyes roll as he sinks into darkness once again.

* * *

When Shiro wakes the second time, he’s alone. Sadly, this doesn’t surprise him any. 

His cell is nearly the same as the last one, most likely in the same hallway, with the same stained tile ceilings and wobegon plaster walls. Knowing he’s in a hospital now, he’s probably in some abandoned ward’s patient rooms, with far less furniture and far more chains. 

A  _ lot  _ more chains, in his case. Another ankle cuff is back on his left foot, but this time his forearms are handcuffed together as well. They’ve also stripped him of his old clothes and replaced them with generic hospital scrubs; he only has a thin, pale purple shirt and pants this time around, and no shoes. 

Well, damn. They’d learned lessons from  _ both  _ of their mistakes. That was...unfortunate.

His head aches, as do a dozen gashes all over his person. It looks like he’s been roughly treated for the knife wounds, since he can feel tape and gauze and see a few bandages on his arms. He’s more or less intact, though, which surprises him.

Then again, they were probably waiting for him to be conscious before enacting any sort of punishment.

Because there  _ will  _ be punishment, he knows. They’re not going to let him be nearly successful in an escape attempt and  _ not  _ let him know how they feel about that. 

He sighs and drags himself up to sit against the nearest wall, wincing as his aching head throbs. The first escape attempt had gone surprisingly well, all things considered, but he’s lost most of his advantages now. He has no idea what time it is, or if Matt and Sam are still okay. He doesn’t think the johrlac has been around recently, but he doesn’t know how much longer he has before she comes for him. 

It’s going to make escaping the second time much more difficult. Difficult, but not  _ impossible.  _

They must be watching him this time, somehow, because less than twenty minutes after he wakes, they come for him. This time there’s three guards, and they enter the room together, two of them with weapons already out. They’re obviously taking no chances with him, this time. One of them has a nasty black eye, and another has long, thin finger-marks around his neck. 

These ones have a vendetta, then. 

They force him to his feet, grab hold of his arms, and keep a knife close to his skin as they haul him out of his new prison room and down the hallway. It isn’t, he notes, the same hallway as Sam and Matt were in after all. That’s unfortunately smart on Galra’s part—when Shiro gets out, it will be a lot more difficult for him to rescue his new friends if he’s not even in the same section of the hospital. 

There’s nothing he can do about that, sadly. He doesn’t fight the guards with a knife blade uncomfortably close to his throat, but he does pay attention to his surroundings instead. The number of doors and hallways they pass, the guards stationed in each area, where the stairwells are. In some places he can hear the distant roar and beep of cars and trucks as they shoot past, and it galls him to know he’s got to be less than fifty feet from safety and yet so disgustingly far away.

When they do stop moving him, it’s to shove him in another room, this one with actual furniture. The furniture isn’t so much a comfort, since the first thing they do is tie him upright to a chair. Once he’s firmly tied down, the three of them seem a lot more emboldened, and sneer at him as they toy with their knives. 

Shiro suspects the entire show is meant to be frightening. He finds it thoroughly unimpressive.

“General Raht regrets that he can’t be here today,” the ringleader drawls. “Unfortunately, he’s assisting the mistress in our great work this evening.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. The ‘great work’ can only be another sacrifice, which means he must have been out cold for longer than he thought. He files that away in his head, and asks out loud,  _ “General  _ Raht, hmm? You’re a military organization now?”

“Shut up!” the second—the one with the black eye—snaps, and punches Shiro hard across the face. Shiro rolls with it, letting them think it’s worse than it is, and hangs his head after as if stunned.

“He has instructed us to ensure you are taught a proper lesson for trying to flee, and inciting insurrection in our ranks,” the first intones. 

“Insurrection? Those two bogeymen are prisoners. They don’t believe in your cause. They want to go  _ home,”  _ Shiro says. 

_ “I said shut up!”  _ the second one snarls again, and cuts loose with another punch. It’s predictable, and Shiro rolls with it again.

“He’s also asked us to soften you up a little, and teach you obedience, for our mistress’ work,” the first says. “To that end, we’ll start with something simple. What is your name?”

Shiro gives him an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious. You already know my name.  _ Everybody  _ knows my name. What kind of joke is this?”

“Answer the  _ question.”  _ Another crack across the face. Even rolling with the punches, there’s blood in Shiro’s mouth now. He spits it to the side absently. 

“Ryou Tanaka,” he answers, with a baleful glare at the so-called interrogator.

Another crack across the face. “The  _ truth.”  _

“That  _ is  _ the truth.” A variation of it, anyway. It had been just as much his name for the past six and a half years as Takashi Shirogane was. 

“Lies,” the man snaps. “We know your name.  _ Tell us your name.”  _

“If you know it, why are you asking?” Shiro counters. 

The man snarls in frustration, and they hit him again.

That’s how it goes, for god only knows how long. These three aren’t really interrogators; they don’t know any of the techniques. They hit, they cut shallowly with knives, they dig their fingers into his prior wounds, but it’s all petty revenge, not calculated, carefully applied pain. Shiro barely needs his training to resist saying anything, and he’s sure he learns more from them than they do from him for as long as this farce goes on. 

They’re blood-hungry bullies throwing a tantrum because they want to be involved in their mistress’ so-called ‘glorious work’ and haven’t yet been chosen. They’re angry because Shiro and the others had actually escaped under their watch and done some damage to them. They’re taking it out on anyone they can. Sam and Matt are off-limits, thankfully, but that makes Shiro a suitable target.

But it makes them weak. Shiro lets them beat on him for a while, moving with the strikes and anticipating the blows, until they grow complacent. He plays wounded bird, to let them feel superior. 

And then when two of them leave, to deal with Sam and Matt’s food for the day, he strikes.

He waits until the one with the black eye leans in close, sneering in his face. “To think a pathetic wreck like you had the  _ gall  _ to oppose my mistress—”

Shiro has no immediate response to that, other than to rear his head back, and headbutt the man in the face.

A proper headbutt isn’t the easiest thing in the world to do. It’s just as easy to injure yourself. Even Shiro, who knows the technique, can feel his previous head injury throbbing angrily in protest at the attack. 

However, a properly executed headbutt can be surprisingly effective, as his so-called torturer discovers. He shrieks in surprise and pulls his head back with a yelp, dropping his knife and pressing his hands to his now bleeding nose. In the confusion, Shiro gets awkwardly to his feet, still tied to the chair, and collapses sideways onto his opponent. There’s a nasty  _ crack  _ as the man’s head collides with the hard floor, and he stops moving.

That went even better than Shiro had expected, really.

It takes a few awkward minutes to dig through the man’s outlandish cultist robes to find the keys to his chains, tied as he is to a chair. Shiro finds them eventually though, and with some awkward twisting, manages to free himself from his restraints. He shoves the man into his own seat, locks him in place, and takes the keys and knife with him as he slips out the door.

Escape number two underway.

Unfortunately, now he has a dilemma. He could maybe get to a door or window, if he’s clever about it. But if he escapes on his own, he has the same problem as when he nearly escaped last time: the moment he leaves, Sam and Matt will be moved, and he’ll never find them again. He needs to escape with them. 

Which means he needs to  _ find  _ them. He knows what floor they’re on—or at least the floor they were kept on previously. He’ll just have to start there and work his way down. 

He makes it to their cell, surprisingly. There are a few servants along the way, and they’re easy enough to dispatch. Shiro doesn’t like how that looks. They’d been smart enough to take measures against him earlier. If there aren’t guards everywhere, he has a bad feeling he’s wandering into a trap.

He doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter to take it anyway. He  _ has  _ to get Matt and Sam out of here if he can. Not only will it save them, it will handicap the johrlac’s final plans, if she doesn’t have her ritual designers present to oversee it.

He makes it to their cells. He breaks the door open with an air of finality.

It’s empty.

“We moved them,” a cold voice behind them sneers. “Just in case. Smart thing we did.” 

Shiro whips around, and finds himself surrounded. Only one of his captors is fully human, presumably the speaker; he smirks at Shiro knowingly. The other two are werelions, filling the hallways and leaving no room to sneak past them. 

“I suppose the cannon fodder failed,” the speaker adds, bored. “No matter. My mistress saw it coming. You’re not getting away so easily, Shirogane.”

This isn’t a fight Shiro can win, but he doesn’t intend to just give up either. He reverses the grip of one of his stolen knives in his hand, readying it for combat, and makes for the exit.

He does what he can, but the fight is over depressingly quickly. He’s lucky enough to get a knife in the eye of the werelion blocking his way, and it shrieks in outrage. But the blade isn’t silver, and the wound is mostly an irritant while the werelion whips out one of its enormous paws and swats him into the wall like a toy. Shiro’s head cracks against the wall, and his already injured skull protests vehemently as his vision swims. He collapses to the floor, dazed.

“Don’t bite him,” the speaker warns, as the werelion plants one enormous paw on Shiro’s chest and holds him down. “The mistress was clear. He is  _ not  _ to receive the gift.” The speaker steps into view, and glares coldly down at Shiro. “But perhaps some insurance that he won’t run again—”

The man stomps, and Shiro shrieks as something  _ cracks  _ in his leg. White-hot pain burns through the limb, and he immediately struggles to curl over on his side to relieve the pressure, trying hard not to vomit. The enormous tawny paw on his chest ensures he doesn’t, and presses down on him harder.

Shiro coughs, then gags, clawing weakly at the werelion’s limb. It’s too heavy—he can’t breathe—and everything  _ hurts— _

His vision swims into black, and yet again, he sinks into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, there will be a delay on the next chapter. It would normally post on Friday, December 25th. Since that's Christmas and I celebrate it, the next chapter will go up on Saturday December 26th instead. 
> 
> Happy Holidays to everyone!


	30. Homo sapiens: Part Six

“If a member of your family gets hurt, you feel bad. You figure out why it happened. You make sure it doesn’t happen again. Feeling awful is the first step. Everything after this is up to you.”   
—Mike Gucciard,  _ Midnight Blue-Light Special  _

**_An unknown room, but probably still in an abandoned hospital_ **

When Shiro wakes for a third time, he’s strapped down to a metal table. 

He’s not immediately aware of it at first. At first, all he knows is  _ pain.  _ His head throbs angrily, and he knows he  _ has  _ to have a concussion by now after how much abuse his skull has taken. His leg is agony, and even the tiniest bit of pressure on it sends electric needles of pain racing down the limb and up his spine. His skin is tight and sensitive from a dozen bruises and shallow cuts from his half assed ‘torture’ earlier. Existing hurts. Being conscious  _ hurts.  _

But when he finally manages to breathe through the pain, he becomes aware of other things. It’s freezing, because the surface he’s laying on is cold, hard metal, and his thin hospital scrubs aren’t enough to keep him warm. And he’s very thoroughly tied down, with thick straps across his shoulders, chest, waist, and legs, and around his wrists and ankles.

They definitely  _ do not  _ want him getting away. Shiro would almost feel smugly satisfied that they’re finally taking him seriously...if they weren’t actually effectively keeping him from getting away, this time.

“I see you’re awake,” a cold, female voice says.

Shiro freezes.  _ No.  _ No, he needs more time before he faces her down. He needs to get away from her before she finds him. He can’t be ‘studied’ by her. He needs—

“There’s no point in pretending,” the voice says. “I can hear your mind stirring. I can hear your fear, and your recognition. You’re awake. You can’t hide from me.” 

And along with her voice come the first creeping sensations that he knows her, just like before.  _ Friend. Family. Teacher. Master.  _ Insinuating little twists in his own mind and memories, making him remember her being a part of his life always. And when he questions that truth, making him wonder why he questions.

Shiro shudders. Then, slowly, struggling more against his body and his own terror more than he’d like to admit to, he opens his eyes.

And there  _ she  _ is. Standing over the table he’s tied to, staring down at him impassively with cold, yellow eyes that glow just faintly. She doesn’t smile, or sneer, or show any form of human emotion, but somehow that’s more frightening. She doesn’t need to show off in front of him or play a role. She knows she’s in charge and has full control of the situation. She knows he’s helpless. She knows he  _ knows  _ that. 

_ Friend. Family. Teacher. Master. She’s always been here...hasn’t she? Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to be afraid— _

Shiro shivers, and not from the cold.

“I understand you’ve been causing my pawns a great deal of trouble,” she says, watching him impassively. “I leave you for two days to prepare the week’s ritual and deal with the aftermath, and you’ve already escaped twice and killed at least half a dozen of my men. You are  _ almost  _ more trouble than you are worth, Shirogane.”

Distantly, he registers her words. The ritual is over. Two more people have died. His friends are probably frantic by now. And still he’s trapped here, and he hasn’t made any headway.

Closer, louder in his head, she twists his thoughts without even trying.  _ She’s kind. She’s family. She would never do such awful things. Why does he need to escape? _

_ Because that’s a lie,  _ he argues with himself stubbornly. She’d complained about his  _ resistance  _ before. He might not have been able to resist her locking his body up, but he will fight her lies in his head with everything he has.  _ She’s a murderer. She hurts people. She’ll hurt  _ me.  _ I can’t believe her. _

“That’s all in the past, though,” the johrlac says. “Now that the ritual has been completed for the week, I have the time to turn my  _ full  _ attention to you, Shirogane. And I think you will make a very promising subject.”

_ Behave,  _ her mental rewiring tries to insist.  _ Be good. Very important for you to listen. Do as she says. It will make you very happy to do so.  _ Her mental touch digs into the part of his brain that incites  _ happiness,  _ and gives him a tantalizing taste of the sheer joy and contentment he’ll feel if he obeys, promising more to come.

He grits his teeth, and ignores the unnaturally stirred up cheerfulness and satisfaction in his head. He has no idea what she intends for him, but he definitely doesn’t plan on making it easy for her. Especially if she tries to question him about his friends, or even the Covenant.  _ No one  _ deserves to face down the wrath of a johrlac, not even his misguided former order. 

There  _ are  _ ways to protect against a telepath, even without protective charms to shield one’s mind and senses. He’s trained in them. This johrlac had caught him off guard before, but this time he’s ready, and he’ll resist her digging into his mind to the best of his ability—

“I don’t care about your friends,” she tells him bluntly. “Save your ridiculous little tricks.” 

He stares. “What?”

“Your friends are of no consequence to me,” she tells him, indifferent. “They’re worthless without you to lead them. Your Covenant is an irritant, but I don’t expect them or anyone else on this Earth to exist long enough to be a bother.” She fixes him with a steely stare. “Your secrets don’t  _ matter,  _ Shirogane. I could dig them out of you eventually, if I wanted to. I could break your mind open and take anything in it I wanted. I don’t care enough about what you know to bother.”

“The cultists that tried to interrogate me earlier—”

“Were idiots,” she says dismissively. “Cannon fodder for the ritual. They’re only worth the blood in their bodies and the menial tasks they can do for me to prepare.” 

Shiro pales. If she doesn’t want him for interrogation, and that’s not what  _ studying  _ means…

“That’s correct,” she says, easily reading his surface thoughts. “You are going to teach me something entirely different. I don’t care about what’s locked in your mind, Shirogane. I care about what’s locked in your  _ genetics.  _ Your evolutionary history.” 

He’s already freezing cold, but his heart ices over anyway.  _ Evolution.  _ She’d talked about evolution before, too. Evolution of herself. Evolution of her followers. He’s always known it was wrapped up in Galra, but he has a horrible feeling he’s about to see first-hand what exactly the missing link is.

“Very good, Shirogane,” she says, and to his disgust, he finds the part of his mind that her powers are naturally conditioning actually  _ delighted  _ by the praise. “You’re observant. It makes you a perfect candidate, and simultaneously  _ far  _ too dangerous to live.” She regards him curiously. “Have you ever wondered about evolution, Shirogane?”

She falls silent, waiting for an answer. He keeps his mouth closed, but unbidden, his own thoughts race ahead to answer the question. Of course he’s thought about it—he’s thought about it for as long as he really started studying and understanding cryptids. It’s fascinating how so many different creatures could go down so many different developmental paths for so many different ecological niches and still be related. It’s amazing how many different, seemingly strange abilities can form out of sheer necessity, because nature designed it so. 

The johrlac can clearly hear his thoughts as easily as the words he doesn’t say, because she nods. “And here the stories all say the fabled Shirogane clan are warriors to a man, but you have a bit of a scientist’s heart, don’t you? Well. That will make things easier.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. Underneath his surface thoughts struggling to make her important, and struggling against the injected lies, she can hear his unease.

“My people have magic,” she tells him. His eyes widen at that, and she gives him a cold look. “Yes, you never knew that, did you? Ours is built of equations, in ways most pathetic human minds can’t begin to comprehend. But our equations, the mathematics that build all worlds and realities, are  _ tied _ to our evolution. Most can only harness  _ pieces  _ of the potential those mathematics offer. Only those past the fourth instar—only an evolved  _ Queen _ —can ever hope to wield the equations that manipulate realities properly.” 

She stares at her hand for a moment, before clenching it. “And yet, the way I was born, I will  _ never  _ have the opportunity to evolve naturally past my first instar. That hardly seems fair, don’t you think?”

Shiro doesn’t know what to think.  _ Instar... _ the word sounds vaguely familiar. Something to do with insect growth or metamorphosis, right? Were johrlac some form of humanoid telepathic insect? He knew Apraxis wasps fled from them, and they were also telepathic insects. 

The johrlac ignores his surface thoughts. “But think about what could happen if an organism could evolve in its  _ own  _ lifetime. Be better than it was. Become  _ more  _ than it was previously capable of. There are ways to force it with every type of organism I have ever studied. I have even artificially pushed myself to my second instar, even though it would have been impossible naturally.” She raises her hand, examining her purplish-gray skin, and brushes her fingers against her bright yellow eyes and white hair for just a moment. “Though not without consequence.” 

Why is she telling him this? There’s no  _ reason  _ for her to ramble like a terrible villain about her plans. Bad guys don’t work like they do in superhero movies. She has to know he’ll escape at the first opportunity and take whatever information she’s given him to use against her. Already she’s given him a goldmine. Johrlac instars and math based magic—he could fill half of a dossier page with that alone. 

_ Because I’m not going to walk away from this,  _ he realizes, with a dull sort of horror.  _ Whatever she’s going to do to me, I’ll probably die before I ever make it back to the others.  _ And if he didn’t—her world-shattering, continent-wide blood ritual would ensure any information he got from her would be pointless, anyway. 

The first wave of despair really hits him then, drowning out even her mental insistences for calm and obedience. He tugs frantically at the straps tying him down, but whoever had secured him had been extremely thorough. He can’t get any leverage with his shoulders, hips, and legs strapped down firmly, and the cuffs wrapped around his wrists and ankles seem to tighten the more he pulls at them, until they’re cutting deep and achingly painful.

The johrlac’s yellow eyes gleam at him. She can  _ definitely  _ pick up on his surface despair and panic, and she knows he understands where this is going. 

“I must go _further,”_ she says. “I need more power to put into the ritual. And you are an excellent subject for discovering how to do just that. Humans are uniquely designed by evolution for their adaptability. It’s what gives them the edge over _every_ other cryptid this world has to offer, despite their meager strength and abilities by comparison. Amongst other things, some are designed by nature to be magically gifted.”

She disappears from his line of sight, although he can still feel her mental attempts to bury herself into his memories as someone important to him.  _ Teacher. Friend. Family. Master. Don’t be afraid, do what she says, obey, obey, obey.  _

He hears something rattling in the corner. He tries to turn to face her, but his head is neatly secured as well, and he can’t quite manage. That sets him struggling anew, but the cords only tighten further around his wrists and ankles until his fingers are numb, and he doesn’t wiggle free so much as an inch.

She returns, dragging a cart after her. It’s covered in a strange collection of items—scalpels, semi-precious stones from rituals, a container that looks suspiciously like a spirit jar, covered in runes and glowing a deep purple. Something about that jar makes him want to fight every single one of her servants he’s already killed again rather than get near it, but his struggles are useless.

“Unfortunately for you,” she says, as she calmly organizes the items on the cart, “humans also have a frustrating amount of free will. And you, in particular, are resistant. You still see me as an enemy, and not someone you can trust, even though you’ve been receiving passive suggestions from me for half an hour now. That resistance will probably keep you alive through the procedure, but your mind—that will have to go. A tool that can’t be used by its master is useless.”

_ Useless, useless, useless. You don’t want to be useless to your family, do you? Do you?  _ Her mental twisting is insistent, and a part of Shiro is immediately shamed for being so awful to someone so important to him. How could he?

_ Lies,  _ he fights immediately.  _ She isn’t family. She’s a murderer. She’s going to kill you.  _

“Why are you doing all of this?” Shiro whispers. He’s surprised he manages to voice his thoughts out loud, but even then, a whisper is all he can manage. He’s terrified—of her, of that thing in the jar, for Matt and Sam, for his friends. He knows he’s not going to live through whatever she has planned, and enduring it will no doubt be agonizing. There’s no point in knowing. 

But he has to anyway. Because it’s human nature to want to know, and at the end of his lifetime, he’s still human.

She pauses, in the act of arranging her tools. For a very, very long time she’s silent, and so still he could easily mistake her for a statue.

Then, very slowly, she says, “I want to go home.” 

Shiro is surprised at the  _ longing  _ in her voice. For just a tiny sliver of a moment, she sounds homesick, and lost, and incredibly sad. He  _ almost  _ thinks, if things had turned out differently, he might have pitied her. And amazingly, he  _ doesn’t  _ think that’s her insidious little mental impulses inside his head, trying to make her an important person in his mind.

But then it’s gone, and she whirls abruptly, slamming her palm down on his forehead and digging her nails into his scalp. He yelps, and tries to pull away, but her grip is too strong and the straps holding him down are too secure. Her mental order tells him to  _ stop,  _ and like before he  _ stops,  _ his muscles locking in place. Try as he might, he can’t  _ move.  _

There’s no escape. It’s over.

“And  _ you  _ are going to help me get there,” she finishes, her voice as cold as ice. “You’re about to evolve. Congratulations, Shirogane. And goodbye.”

_ No, no, no, no, no!  _ He shrieks in a panic inside his own head, as he feels the tendrils of her much stronger mind slithering inside his, worming in through the cracks, picking away inside his skull. The touch of her hand on his forehead  _ burns,  _ and makes it so much easier for her to smash her way through his mental defenses.  _ No, no, remember your training, a wall of thoughts, protect yourself— _

He scrabbles frantically for the first thing that comes to mind, the first catechism of his own priesthood.  _ In the days of greater faith the Gods, in their Wisdom, did reach down and make a Paradise in the new world— _

And then she opens his mind, cracks him in half and spills out the insides to drain it away into eternity, and he  _ screams,  _ and the words are forgotten.

* * *

He’s on fire.

Every part of him is on fire. Burning alive and burning alive and burning alive, over and over and over and over—

Every part of him is on fire, but his right arm burns the worst. It’s  _ made  _ of fire, his skin splits and burns, the muscle and fat beneath bubbles and crackles, the bones turn to ash, and yet the fire never stops. Never stops, never stops, never stops. Never ends. It’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell—

He’s on fire, he’s burning alive and he can’t die, the only thing he understands is sheer, mind-numbing agony and it won’t stop won’t stop won’t stop won’t stop  _ won’t stop _ —

Let it  _ stop.  _ Let it  _ stop.  _ Please please please pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—

“Two days, Shirogane. You’ve held on for two entire days. I’m genuinely impressed. The cultists I’ve tried this on die almost immediately.”

_ Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease _

_ It’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell please stop please stop please please please please _

“You don’t even understand me anymore, do you? Never mind. I broke your mind for a reason.”

_ Make it stop please please make it stop make it end please please pleaseplease— _

**_GET UP._ **

The order is loud, loud enough to cut through the roaring fire and the sheer agony, and it cannot be disobeyed. He hurts, he hurts, he  _ hurts,  _ but he  _ must obey.  _

**_GET UP._ **

He tries. He jerks spasmodically, movement twitching through his searing limbs convulsively. He tries, but moving causes the flames to burn higher. Distantly he can feel something sharp and agonizing in his leg, a new kind of pain that cuts through the burning and overloads his already suffering mind. He screams, inside his head and outside of it, and his throat burns from the noise as much as the flames. 

And still he tries to get up, because the Order is paramount.

He pushes his distant, shaking limbs, and tries to claw his way upright. He doesn’t know how to move, he can feel his limbs but not how to use them, but he tries because  _ the Order.  _ Every movement is agony. The pain shrieks at him to collapse, to fall into his mind, and the Order shrieks at him to rise, to ignore it. He struggles to do both, and he burns alive inside, and his limbs twitch and struggle and don’t succeed, and he screams.

**_SILENT! BE STILL._ **

He collapses. His throat closes on him, and the screaming outside his head stops. The screaming inside his head doesn’t. It’s agony it’s hell let him die already let him die  _ let him die— _

He doesn’t die. He burns alive but never dies. Torment torment torment torment, and his arm burns the brightest of all, fingers twitching,  _ notminenotminenotmine _

“Those idiots. You can’t even walk, can you?  _ You!  _ Carry him.  _ Carefully.  _ We’re leaving. Now.”

Something touches him, sliding beneath his shoulders and legs. His leg  _ stabs  _ again, a bolt of sheer agony that burns in a different way than the rest of him. His arm joins it,  _ burning burning burning burning  _ angrier, hotter, fiercier. He tries to scream. His throat is still locked against it.  _ Silent.  _ He shrieks in his own mind instead.  _ It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts— _

Colors flash. Lights. Dark. Faces. An ever-shifting kaleidoscope that he sees and can’t make sense of. Nothing makes sense but  _ painpainpainpainpain— _

_ Pleasepleasepleasepleaseletitstoppleasepleaseplease— _

_ Notminenotminenotminenotmine _ **_notmine_ ** _ — _

“Your body hasn’t rejected the transplant yet, Shirogane. That means you  _ should  _ be able to use it. We are going to do that now.” 

He thuds onto something hard. His bones jar him inside, and agony shoots up his leg, crackling and white hot. He curls on himself, coughing, gagging,  _ hurting,  _ trying to contain it inside, curl up and stop it stop it stop it—

_ It’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell— _

_ Vile. Vile. Evil. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong— _

He burns. He burns alive and every part of him hurts and it won’t stop, but something else exists besides  _ pain  _ now. It’s malevolence and cruelty and evil and the awful scent of decay and blood and red lines, red lines, red lines he can’t make sense of. His hand burns,  _ burnsburnsburns,  _ but it’s ice cold now too,  _ burnsburnsburns  _ in a new way, it hurts it hurts it  _ hurts  _ and he writhes away from it—

_ Goawaygoawaygoaway don’t want it don’t want this please end it stop stop stop— _

“Oh god,  _ Shiro— _ ”

“What have you  _ done  _ to him?”

“None of your concern, runeweaver. The ritual is in front of you, Shirogane. Empower it.”

_ No, no, no, no, no, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, stop it stop it stop it please— _

_ Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! _

“Shirogane.  _ Now.”  _

And in his mind echos the Order,  **_EMPOWER. USE MAGIC. NOW._ **

_ No, no, no, no, no, please no, please— _

_ Notminenotminenotminenotminewrongwrongwrong _

But the Order is paramount. The Order wants him to reach for the darkness, the coldness, the malevolence and decay and  _ wrongness  _ and  _ push.  _ He’s terrified of it, he doesn’t want to touch it, it’s  _ wrong wrong vile evil wrong bad bad bad _ , he can feel  _ pain  _ coming off of it even greater than his own burning. There’s so much hurt, hurt,  _ hurt,  _ he doesn’t want to—but the Order wants him to, and his fingers twitch, and the burning grows more intense, and he reaches—

—but all he can do is reach. Touch.  _ Burn alive,  _ burn alive, burn alive, suffer, feel that evilness and vileness on his skin, so close it makes him choke, makes him vomit. He gags and spills his insides outside, and reaches,  _ and reaches,  _ because the Order—

—but touching the vileness does nothing but make him sick again. 

_ Wrongwrongwrongwrongnotminenotminenotminenotmine— _

**_EMPOWER! USE MAGIC! NOW!_ **

He  _ tries.  _ The Order insists and he  _ tries.  _ Moving is agony. Seeing is agony. Trying is agony. But he doesn’t know what the Order  _ wants.  _ He doesn’t  _ understand.  _ Everything is pieces, nothing makes sense but  _ hurting,  _ he can’t he can’t he doesn’t know how to do anything but hurt hurt  _ hurt— _

The Order  _ shrieks.  _ It’s angry. Its anger is  _ agonizing.  _ It smashes into the broken bits of his mind, slithers into his limbs, works his fingers.  **_NOW! USE NOW!_ **

He screams. Hangs from thin mental webs and jerks spasmodically as his body moves for him in ways he can’t think to try. He thrashes, and his right arm jerks and spasms, fingers twitching, and the Order  _ pushes  _ at the flames, and pushes and pushes and—

And the flames burn higher, his  _ arm  _ burns hotter, bones of ash and boiling blood and  _ agony agony agony,  _ he’ll burn alive from the inside, crack open and vanish, finally consumed, nothing left but smoke and a memory of pain—

_ “Enough!  _ You’re  _ killing  _ him!” 

“Stop,  _ please!”  _

_ Burningburningburningburningburning— _

_ Notminenotminenotminenotmine _

“He won’t use the transplant. I will  _ force  _ him—”

“He  _ can’t  _ use it! It might not have been rejected. That doesn’t mean his body knows  _ how.  _ He’s not a sorcerer! You’re  _ killing  _ him like this!” 

“You’re lying, runeweaver.” 

The  _ Order  _ pushes harder. His body jerks in ways it shouldn’t be able to, his spine bends agonizingly. The flames burn hotter.  _ Burningburningburningburning— _

“I’m not! You can see that if you look! Sorcerers can’t be  _ made  _ this way. Even  _ true  _ sorcerers take decades to tame their own natural powers, and they can still fail.”

_ Burningburningburningburning— _

The Order recedes suddenly, mental webs slipping free from his fingers, limbs, mind. He collapses, fingers still twitching spasmodically, gasping for air. His throat burns from screaming. His body burns from everything else.

“I see. I suppose magic is not obtainable this way after all. No matter. Knowledge gained is never wasted.”

Something digs into his hair, sharp and strong, and wrenches his head back. The world spins in a haze of confusing colors. Dark shapes and two pinpricks of yellow swim in front of him. “You’re a disappointment, Shirogane. And you had such promise. I had hoped you would speed up my schedule by a few weeks, since you put it behind in the first place. But then, I have waited for centuries. In the end, a few more weeks is nothing.” 

Everything is noises. Noises and blurred colors and  _ burning.  _ It’s hell it’s hell it’s hell it’s hell please let it stopstopstopstop _ stop— _

“Hm. Your mind is too far gone to be of any use for anything else. If nothing else, you’ll pay your debts to me as the next blood sacrifice. You’re not much more than a broken sack of blood now, anyway. Perhaps your blood infused with magic will still serve the purpose.” The claw in his hair releases him, and he thuds hard to the ground. The pain is minuscule compared to the way he burns alive inside, and he barely notices. 

“Take him back to the holding cells. Keep him alive until the next sacrifice. I don’t care how you do it, but if he dies before then, you will take his place.”

“Yes, mistress!”

He’s lifted again. His leg jarrs again, sends more pain shrieking up his spine into his mind. Every part of him is on fire. His arm is on fire most of all. The malevolence, the evil, the cruelty recedes, but the eternal suffering doesn’t, and it’s hell, and he doesn’t stop burning alive.

_ Please, I’m begging, please let it end.  _

* * *

It doesn’t end. 

But it does grow... _ duller.  _

The pain never really goes  _ fully  _ away, but it eventually starts to recede. He isn’t on fire  _ everywhere  _ anymore. His leg is jabbing and insistent. Sometimes his head throbs. But most of him quiets.

His arm is the worst—that pain  _ doesn’t  _ stop, his arm burns to ash over and over and over and over every time it moves and even when it doesn’t. He can  _ still  _ feel his skin cracking and blood and muscle bubbling and his bones reduce to dust over and over again in his arm. 

It sends him out of his mind with pain. 

But at least it’s the only thing that does, now.

His mind is pieces. The burning in his arm only makes it more confusing. Sounds and colors swim by in a haze and he can’t pull the scattered pieces together enough to understand any of it. Meanings almost reach him and slip away from his mind and spin off into the dark. 

Everything isn’t  _ agony  _ anymore. It’s confusion, too.

It’s not any better. He still wants it to stop. He can’t take this anymore.

“God, Shiro. What did she  _ do  _ to you?”

Something touches at his forehead. He ignores it. It touches at his arm next— _ burning, burning, burning alive— _ and he shrieks in pain, trying to pull away. His hand twitches spasmodically, but something cuts at his wrist, keeps it in place, and everything hurts  _ more.  _ He moans, a choking, incoherent noise that slithers out of his mouth without thought.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it would—Shiro? Are you okay?”

The touch stops. The burning in his arm burns  _ slightly  _ less. 

“Shiro?”

Colors shift in his vision. Brown. Gray. Something that gleams. Sharp things. 

“Shiro, do you recognize me? It’s Matt. Do you know who I am? Shiro?”

More colors shifting. Movement. Noises. Noises are bad, but they don’t come with the  _ Order  _ anymore, so he ignores them.

A low moan. “Oh, god. She really...she really messed with your head, didn’t she? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t be in this mess if not for us. You could have escaped. And now…”

A careful touch at his forehead again. It doesn’t come with  _ pain.  _ He doesn’t understand that, and he doesn’t try to. Too confusing. 

“I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying, Shiro, but...me and dad are supposed to take care of you long enough for...for a few days from now. I’m sorry. It’s not fair. They’re just keeping you alive long enough to sacrifice you. I don’t know if you even understand how messed up that is right now. But...but if you live that long, maybe your friends can get to you in time. So me and dad are going to help you as much as we can. Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

More careful touches. They’re delicate, and cause almost no pain. Pull at the skin, little stings, tiny pains that are barely anything, pressure and gone. Movement, shifting colors, little incomprehensible noises.

“There...that’s your dressings changed. They splinted your leg earlier, I don’t want to mess with that just in case...do you think you could drink water? You’ll need to stay hydrated…”

Something slips behind his shoulders. Lifts. He sags, heavy, uncoordinated, limbs hanging. Arm pulls— _ burns, burns, burns _ —and another noise crawls out of his throat without thought.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s probably uncomfortable. Just please try. Okay?”

Head tilts. Jaw works open. Something hard against his mouth, dribbles of cold slosh down his chin.

“Shiro, please. C’mon. You’ve gotta try. I don’t think they’ll let us set up an IV and you  _ need  _ fluids, please—”

The cold sloshes against his lips again. Very distantly, he... _ remembers.  _ Catches a tiny little fragment swirling in his mind and knows this is a thing he knew, once. The liquid on his tongue is another memory, and he wants it and he  _ needs  _ it, and he swallows.

“Oh, thank god. That’s it. Take it slow. Little sips, Shiro.”

He...he  _ drinks... _ until the liquid is taken away, and then he sags again. The noises and the touches set him down again, in another disorienting whirl of colors and shapes and movement, and he sighs wearily.

“I don’t know what she did to your arm, exactly, but it doesn’t look like it’s healing. It sounded like it hurt you when I touched it. Dad might have an idea of how to help you. I’ll mention it to him.”

“Time’s up, kid. Move.”

“Crap—hang in there, Shiro. We’ll figure something out. Just keep fighting.”

The noises recede, and the colors stop whirling. Shiro isn’t sure why, but he almost misses them. They hadn’t brought  _ suffering.  _ They’d almost brought the opposite of  _ suffering.  _

He continues to hurt. His arm continues to burn. Mostly, there’s no movement, no colors, no sounds. 

Sometimes, his vision is black, and he  _ sees  _ things instead, disjointed visions he knows he used to know but that have no  _ concept  _ anymore. A yellow-eyed demon. Red lines and red liquid. Faces that don’t cause  _ hurt,  _ but he causes hurt to  _ them,  _ and that causes suffering. Violet flames that burn him alive and burn him alive and burn him alive and scream  _ notminenotminenotmine  _ over and over and over. A man in gleaming white armor who collects little pieces of crystal and hurls them at him and screams at him to  _ put it together, remember,  _ and he doesn’t know how and that terrifies him.

“Shiro? You awake?”

A touch at his forehead. The blackness recedes, and there are blurry shapes and colors again that move in front of him. Not the  _ same  _ shapes as last time, but the same colors. He likes those colors.

“Sssh, it’s alright. Bad dream?”

The noises aren’t the same either. Deeper. But no less not-suffering than before. They pause, and something very far back in his broken mind suggests he’s supposed to...to  _ respond,  _ somehow. That’s as far as he gets. 

A sigh. “That’s alright, son. Matt told me your mind is a little...out of it, right now. We can work with it. Can you understand me at all? Give me a sign if you can, Shiro.”

His arm burns worse than before. His fingers twitch, but even that little bit of movement causes the flames to burn hotter inside him. 

“Shiro?” The colors move. Gray shapes slide into his vision. Something about them seems  _ wrong, unnatural,  _ but he doesn’t know what. They move. There’s a  _ new  _ noise. It surprises him. 

“Hmm. No response to language. But you’re tracking my fingers, and you can respond to a snap. Part of you is aware of the external world. Whatever she did to you is just making it difficult for you to process it. If we can get you out of here, maybe we can work on that.”

The colors and shapes move. “Matt also said your arm wasn’t healing right. I know you don’t understand me right now but I’m going to have to touch it. It might hurt. But I might be able to figure out how to make it hurt less. Bear with me, Shiro.”

A touch at his arm.  _ Burning, burning, burning.  _ He shrieks, and tries to pull his arm away, fingers twitching frantically, wild with  _ pain.  _ His wrist goes nowhere, and something cuts around it, holding it in place.

“Easy there, Shiro! Stop, you’re making it worse when you tug at the cords. Easy.” Something presses down gently on his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, but it  _ does  _ keep him from moving. 

A soft tutting noise. “If I hadn’t seen the rituals already, this would be the cruelest thing I’ve ever witnessed. Magic was never meant to be used like this.  _ You,  _ get me a sharpie.”

“I don’t take orders from insurgents.”

“This could  _ kill  _ him. You know your mistress’ orders. You let him die, you’ll take his place for the ritual in three days.”

Grudging grumbles. Shuffling. A soft  _ pop,  _ and an odd scent. “I need you to keep still, Shiro,” the noise that belongs to the  _ not-suffering  _ shapes and colors says. “I know it hurts when I touch your arm, but this will help, I think. Just bear with me.” 

_ Pain.  _ They touch his arm and there’s  _ pain.  _ He tries to jerk away, but the shapes hold him down relentlessly. A trick. Wrong. Wrong.  _ Wrong.  _

But then—

—the burning is  _ less.  _

He stills. His arm still  _ burns,  _ but it’s a smoulder, not a roaring fire. It’s sore, it throbs, but it doesn’t actively  _ torment.  _ Better. Better. Better.

Not a trick. 

_ Relief.  _

“There,” the noise—no,  _ voice,  _ the flames don’t hide the fragments anymore, it’s a  _ voice,  _ a  _ voice— _ the  _ voice  _ says, and there’s a gentle touch at his forehead. “It’s not perfect, but that must be a little better, right? Those symbols should contain it, at least for now. It should hurt you less, I hope.”

He doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know what the _voice_ wants, or what it’s saying. He remembers, distantly, voices _mean things,_ but he doesn’t remember what. But he knows he hurts less, and a low moan of relief crawls its way out of his throat.

“That’s it, Shiro. Hang in there. Just a little longer. We’ll find some way out of this.” 

Burning, burning, burning. But  _ less.  _ This voice, it can make the burning  _ less.  _ He can suffer  _ less.  _

For the first time since  _ fire,  _ he doesn’t want everything to end just yet.

* * *

That’s how things are. 

Most things are moments of  _ pain,  _ but less pain than before. It feels quieter in his head. The flames burn, but they don’t scream as loudly. It hurts, and it’s not  _ bearable,  _ it’s  _ terrible,  _ but he can feel things besides  _ suffering  _ sometimes.

Sometimes, when it’s very quiet, when his arm smoulders and doesn’t scream, he can collect fragments. Little spinning fragments in his head, shattered pieces that he grabs when his mind is strong enough to reach for them. 

They’re not many. Just a little handful. It hurts to try. It takes so much of his strength to reach out.

But important. They  _ mean  _ things. Little parts of himself that should go together seamlessly, and he wants them back. 

They give him little gifts. Tiny little things. Some of the colors and shapes resolve into  _ faces.  _ Voices are still voices, but sometimes they’re  _ words,  _ and he knows what  _ words  _ are now, and every once and a while one has meaning. Sometimes they’re smells. Tastes. Sensations.

Sometimes they’re bits of people—and they tell him what  _ other people _ are too. White feathers. Gleaming red eyes in the dark. Long spines. Brilliant scales. Grinning, sharp teeth. Just impressions. Many of them  _ look  _ scary, but they don’t  _ feel  _ scary. 

Some are parts of things too complex. They belong to a bigger whole, and he hasn’t snatched those pieces back yet. Things like  _ Covenant  _ and  _ missions  _ and  _ catechisms  _ and  _ Galra.  _

_ Galra  _ makes him sob. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what  _ Galra  _ is. He just knows the impression, and the impression is terrible.

Sometimes, there are moments when it’s  _ not  _ quiet. Sometimes, in those moments, there are people around him. Mostly, the people are bad. But some of them are good. He learns, slowly, to recognize two. He thinks it’s two. They’re the same color impressions, gray-brown-gleaming-teeth, which he eventually learns are  _ faces,  _ but not the same faces. 

But they’re good faces. Their voices are calm and soft and careful. He thinks they’re talking  _ to  _ him, even if he doesn’t understand most of what they say. They’re gentle if they touch him, careful with his burning arm, with anything else that hurts. They help him drink water, which he’s desperate for. 

They use the same sound when they look at him and talk to him, over and over.  _ Shiro.  _ It takes his sluggish, broken mind a long time to understand this is the sound they use for  _ him.  _

Shiro. He must be Shiro. He doesn’t recognize it. It’s not a gift from any of the meager fragments he’s collected. But he’s sure that’s what they call him. 

_ Shiro.  _

He wants them to be there more often. They never stay long. He doesn’t know where they go after. He doesn’t know where  _ here  _ is. There isn’t much world outside the surface he lays on, bright colors and sounds, and the people that come to him.

He drifts, aimless and mostly suffering but sometimes not, through existing. 

The visions from before continue. He knows they come now when he closes his eyes; that much he understands. He doesn’t know what they mean. The man in gleaming white armor chases crystals and throws them at him still and demands he  _ remember.  _ The yellow-eyed demon glares at him and her words are incomprehensible, full of wistful longing and sheer  _ hatred.  _ Frightening impressions that aren’t frightening call to him, and he loves them, but then he kills them, and he doesn’t know why. And always, always the violet flames burn hot and fierce in an iron cage, sparking against the bars and whispering,  _ not mine, not mine, not mine.  _

When a great  _ crash  _ sounds nearby, Shiro isn’t even sure if it’s still visions, or if it’s real.  _ Real  _ is incomprehensible in its own way; too much of it doesn’t make sense. But then there’s movement around him, and  _ people,  _ but not the good people, not the  _ kind  _ ones. The ones with harsh voices that cause pain and don’t care that they do.

“The mistress will have  _ our  _ blood in that ritual circle if he’s taken!”

“Get him out of here. Hurry!”

They drag him upright, digging hands around his arm, digging in, and the flames inside burn anew, freshly kindled. He  _ shrieks,  _ tries to thrash away. It’s no longer quiet. Thoughts are no longer easy. Not when there’s  _ pain.  _

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck!  _ They’ll hear that, shut him up!”

Movement. Colors, light and dark, spinning everywhere. Something in the back of his neck, forcing his head back. Something shoved over his mouth.

_ No.  _

Something new in his broken consciousness surfaces, dragging itself out of the endless flames. Another fragment seals itself into place. Something that isn’t helpless. Something  _ angry.  _

_ Fight.  _

He bites. Sinks his teeth in deep. Not a vampire, not a chupacabra, not a gorgon, not a bogeyman. Pathetic human teeth. Still does damage. Tastes slick. Spit it out.

_ What are those things? Vampire, chupacabra, gorgon, bogeyman?  _ He only has words. No meaning. 

He likes the words anyway. He likes  _ fighting  _ anyway.

One of the voices yelps. “He bit me! He bit my fucking finger! I thought he was supposed to be fucking  _ brain-dead  _ and he  _ bit  _ me!”

“Get it together, you dumbass!  _ Gag  _ him then! We gotta go!”

The bitten thing rips from between his teeth. Returns and slaps him  _ hard  _ across the face. He collapses with a gasp. Fingers dig into his arm, and he shrieks again, thrashing in agony, and when his mouth is open something softer is shoved between his teeth. He bites down on it, but this time it does nothing but make it harder to breathe. He can’t get it out. 

Arms wrap around him, haul him upright. His arm is pinned against a hard surface, and the pressure is unbearable, and the flames  _ roar,  _ set his bones alight alongside every nerve in his body. He thrashes, but the arms dig in tighter, pin him harder, and the pressure on his arm is relentless. He screams, but the noise is muffled against the thing in his mouth.

“Got him! Go,  _ go!  _ The mistress is waiting at the last ritual!” 

Movement.  _ Fast.  _ Everything whirls past too quickly for his eyes to understand, even if he  _ could  _ focus on the images. He can’t. Movement is jarring, painful, keeps every nerve in him constantly on fire with agony. His leg stabs. His head throbs. His arm burns and burns and  _ burns  _ in a way it hasn’t since the kind voices helped him. 

For the first time since the  _ voices,  _ he begs for it to end again.  _ No more. Please. Please.  _

And then—

_ Roaring.  _

Loud, echoing,  _ dangerous.  _ Awful snarls and low growls. Movement  _ stops.  _ He jerks to a halt, and his leg swings painfully and  _ stabs,  _ and his arm presses hard and ignites anew.

“Are...are those  _ our  _ ascended?”

“I don’t recognize those forms…”

Roaring again. Clacking. Growling. 

“Not ours. Those aren’t ours! They’re the insurgent ascended!  _ Run!”  _

“Back the way we came!”

Colors and shapes whirl around him again. He gags against the thing in his mouth. The movement is jarring and the pain is  _ too much  _ and he wants to vomit. He sags. No strength left to thrash. All that’s left is agony.

Movement  _ stops  _ again, and a choked, aborted scream claws its way through the thing in his mouth at his abused limbs.  _ Stop. Please. No more. No more. _

“Shit,” the close voice says.

And farther away, in a field of colors and shapes and vague figures, a distant voice says, “Put Shiro  _ down.  _ Now!”

Shiro. That’s the word for  _ him.  _

He doesn’t know that voice. But he  _ trusts  _ that voice. There’s something about it just on the edge of his fragmented mind. He can’t reach it—he hurts too badly, he’s so tired, he’s so  _ weak— _ but it’s good, he thinks. It’s safe. 

_ Safe.  _ Safe means no pain. Safe is so  _ close.  _

_ Help me. Please. No more. I can’t… _

“We’ll kill him.” He drops suddenly, knees hitting the ground, sending bolts of pure agony up his leg. Forced forward, arms wrenched behind him,  _ burning, burning, burning, burning  _ as they dig fingers deeper into his flesh. He sags, held up only by those awful, torturous grips. Something presses against his throat, pricks at his neck. A minuscule pain, compared to the inferno in his arm, and the sharp stabbing in his leg. But something about it doesn’t feel right, anyway. “Better  _ dead  _ and out of your hands than freed.” 

Low growls. Strange hissing noises. Heavy, gasping breaths. Farther away still, there’s screaming, yelling, yowling. The world  _ trembles,  _ and he can feel it reverberate through his bones like a fresh kind of hell. He moans. 

“You wouldn’t leave this hallway. You kill him, you’re both dead men.”

“For our mistress, such a sacrifice is worthwhile.”

“They mean that,” a new voice says, but it’s  _ not  _ new. It’s one of the kindly voices. Hope stirs in him. “They’ll consider it an honor to kill him and die for it.”

“If we let them go, they’ll take Shiro and kill him anyway.”

He struggles to lift his head dazedly. It’s hard. He’s so heavy. He hurts so much. He’s so  _ tired.  _ The sharpness at his throat makes it harder. But he tries to stare across at the figures that carry the kind voices, the  _ safe  _ voices. His vision is a blur. He can barely make them out. They’re so far away. He doesn’t truly  _ recognize  _ any of them. 

But he knows, deep inside, in parts of him not yet put back together, they are his salvation.

And as if in answer to his broken thoughts, something whispers in his ear,  _ “Close your eyes, Shiro.”  _

He jerks, and the sharpness cuts deeper into his neck. The close voices yell, and one digs fingers into his hair, holding him more tightly in place. 

There’s no one  _ there.  _ No one where the voice came from. But it feels familiar. It feels  _ normal,  _ somehow.

_ “Easy, Shiro,”  _ the voice whispers again.  _ “It’s just me, Pidge. Close your eyes. We’ll do the rest.” _

He doesn’t know what most of that means. Half the words have no meaning. But he knows  _ close your eyes.  _ He knows  _ easy— _ easy is a word only the kind voices use, with their calm, soft words. He knows  _ Shiro— _ his word, another word only the kind voices use.

This isn’t one of the kind voices. But it feels safe anyway. It feels worth listening to.

He closes his eyes. 

“He’s good!” the whispering voice yells, but now from much farther away, and much louder. “Hunk,  _ now!”  _

Loud, angry hissing. Equally loud, angry yelling. The closest voice yelps, and then falls silent. 

The sharpness falls away. So do the painful, tight grips on his arms, in his hair. Two sharp groans, two sharp  _ thuds.  _

And he falls.

He doesn’t hit the ground. Something catches him, supporting his shoulders. It touches his arm, and he screams through the thing in his mouth. It immediately stops, and someone hisses, “Sorry, I’m sorry Shiro, I didn’t mean—”

He moans, muffled through the thing in his mouth. The one that caught him shifts carefully, removes it from between his teeth, and adjusts him gently. He’s lifted, but it doesn’t hurt like before; they’re careful about how they hold him, keeping his leg steady, resting his arm on his chest instead of crushing it against him. They  _ move,  _ but it isn’t jarring, doesn’t shatter his bones and kindle the flames so badly as before. His eyes flutter open, and he catches a flash of dark hair and gleaming red eyes.

_ The vision. The impression. One of the fragments.  _

And for the first time since  _ fire,  _ he thinks, just maybe, he could be safe.

“Keep’em closed, Shiro,” the whisper-voice says. Someone who looks like the kind-voices but isn’t covers his eyes with long gray fingers. 

He balks, but his carrier murmurs, “It’s just Pidge, Shiro, it’s okay. Hunk’s not shielded. We don’t want you stunned.”

“He probably doesn’t understand you right now, son,” another voice—the other kind-voice—says. “Their mistress did a number on his mind. Keep things simple.”

“Great. Anybody got an extra pair of polarized glasses? Lance, you’re transformed right now, you don’t need yours, right?” A strange growling noise, different than the ones all around them. “I’ll take that as a yes. Here, Shiro.”

The hand retreats, and something slips over his eyes. He balks at it again, but it doesn’t hurt, and nothing changes when he opens his eyes. Faces stare down at him, faces he doesn’t recognize apart from the kind-voices. Another brown-and-gray face with sharp teeth, like the kind-voices. A face with writhing snakes for hair. His carrier, with red eyes and long fangs. 

_ What? What? What is this?  _ His broken mind asks, confused.

But another part, the visions, the fragments, whispers,  _ Friends. Safe.  _

He’s too tired to think harder. The kind-voices are with them. His carrier doesn’t hurt him. There are screams and yowls all around him, but here it feels  _ quieter.  _

He sags. He hurts too much to fight. But he doesn’t think he needs to.

“What’s wrong with him?” 

“It’s too complicated to get into right now. We need to get him to medical help as soon as possible. He’s been through a lot.”

“What do we do then? Shiro can’t help us get out! Keith?”

His carrier hisses. “Okay. Okay, Lance, you, Kinkade and Rizavi start cutting our way out. Pidge, sound the alarm for the other teams to retreat, wherever they are in the building. Hunk, you stick by me—if anything comes for Shiro or the Holts, stun it or statue it. I’ll carry Shiro.”

“You sure you can, son? He’s taller than you.”

“I’m a lot stronger than I look.” His carrier shows those long fangs with a snarl, a noise that sends a primal shiver of fear up his spine. “And if they try to take him from me, I’m gonna rip their arms off.  _ Go.”  _

An unearthly howl reverberates through them.  _ Chupacabra hunting howl,  _ he thinks—frightening, but not a threat to him—and then he dazedly wonders,  _ what is a chupacabra?  _ But the origin of the sound doesn’t hurt him, so whatever is trapped in those fragments, it must be right. Closer, louder snarls follow, growing more distant by the moment, and ahead are frightened cries and pained screams.

They move. They move  _ too fast.  _ Shiro barely understands what flashes past him, now; his carrier moves much less jarringly than the others, but too fast for him to understand. He sees flashes of white walls and red splashes. Enormous animals fighting each other. A spiked... _ dog?... _ circling repeatedly. Lightning flashes of scales, and blurred, gray forms collapsing. 

It’s all too much to take in. Too much around, and too much inside—no matter how gentle his carrier is, his arm still  _ burns,  _ ignited and angry, and his leg still stabs, and he wants everything to  _ stop.  _

It doesn’t stop. It gets faster. His carrier yells things and there are yowls and screams all around them, and then suddenly the walls are gone and it’s  _ cold  _ and  _ dark,  _ and he doesn’t understand what’s happening anymore. He shudders.

“We’re almost safe, Shiro,” his carrier says. “Everyone! Get in the van! Hurry!” 

They rush forward. It’s dizzyingly fast, and his head swims, and it’s  _ cold,  _ and his arm burns in violent contrast, and he barely feels like a part of any of this anymore. A face leans out of a window ahead and yells, “Get in! Hurry!” and fires something jarringly loud in a flash of light. He feels too far away for it to even startle him.

His carrier scrambles inside the—the  _ van,  _ a new fragment tells him, the  _ van— _ and pulls farther inside as the other faces pile in after. The last to leap in is the spiked dog, which isn’t a dog at all, suddenly. It yelps, “The others are getting away too,  _ go go go!”  _ and with a horrible screech, they’re moving, and they  _ go.  _

His carrier lays him out against something soft, and several of the others reach out to hold him in place against the frantic, jarring, painful movement of the  _ van.  _ “He’s too cold,” his carrier says. “Everything about him smells wrong. I think he’s in shock. He needs Allura,  _ now.”  _

“There’s blankets in the back,” another voice says. “We’ve got to shed any tails before we can head to the penthouse.” 

Something smothers him, heavy on his body,  _ warm.  _ Even the tiniest brush on his arm is  _ agony _ , but he’s too tired and too far away from it to scream anymore. A soft, defeated moan is all that squirms out of his throat.

“Easy—Shiro, it’s okay, it’s okay, we’re out—”

“We’re getting you help. Any minute now, promise. You’re so close—”

“Just hang on. Shiro, please—”

He can’t. He can’t anymore. These people are safe, but he’s so tired even the burning is receding, there’s no strength left in him, his mind is pieces and he just  _ can’t— _

“No! No, Shiro, please, c’mon, please keep your eyes open just a little longer, Shiro,  _ please _ —”


	31. Homo sapiens: Part Seven

“Sometimes I feel like  _ I  _ need some therapy after the fact. It was really too bad that was never going to happen.”   
—Verity Price,  _ Chaos Choreography  _

**_in the darkness drifting_ **

For the longest time, he knows nothing.

It’s empty and cool and dark and comforting, and nothing is just fine with him. Nothing doesn’t  _ hurt. _

But he can’t stay in  _ nothing  _ forever, and eventually, he starts to drift. 

Drifting is like floating on rough waters. Sometimes he falls so far down he’s back in the nothing again, and everything—thoughts, self, existence—gets muffled and dulled and distant. But sometimes his mind goes higher, and the darkness gets  _ gray,  _ and bits and pieces of other things start to exist again.

“—can you heal—”

“—ncertain. The physical wounds, yes. I’ve never had to heal a mind before, I don’t know if I can—”

_ Sink.  _

_ Float.  _

“—o to his arm?”

“I’ve never seen the like. It’s  _ magic,  _ but—”

“—unnatural—”

_ Sink.  _

_ Float.  _

“—everything I can. But the damage is severe. He may be like this forever—”

“Then it’s up to him?”

“I’m afraid—”

_Pain,_ he discovers then, exists when he floats, too. He doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t like staying for long. His arm _burns._ It doesn’t burn as much as it once did, but it _hurts._ He can see the violet flames roaring higher in the darkness with him, still caged. _Not mine, not mine, not mine._

_ Sink.  _ Away from the burning, and the pain.

But over time, the comforting nothing gets a little brighter. Bit by bit, the blackness resolves to gray, and he can’t hide in the nothing anymore. The flames come back—but so do other things. The visions of the yellow-eyed demon, furious and sad. The fragments—red eyes and scales and spines and sharp teeth—fragments that were  _ real.  _

And the man in the white armor, who stands in the middle of a pile of crystal pieces, looks him in the eye, and tells him,  _ no more running. Put yourself together. They need you. It’s up to you.  _

It’s a daunting task. There’s so many pieces of himself scattered everywhere, violently and cruelly broken and scattered. 

But he wants to be whole. And they need him. Whoever  _ they  _ is. Perhaps the kind voices that were his salvation. So he wearily settles down, buries his fingers in the piles of fragments, and starts fitting himself back together. Piece by piece.

It’s hard. It’s agonizingly hard. There’s so many pieces, and they don’t all go together in the same way. Parts are useless. Parts need other parts to make any sense. It’s exhausting, and sometimes he wants to lay back down in the nothing and rest.

But the more pieces he shakily fits together, the more rewarding the job becomes. He’s only collected tiny little fragments before—scraps of words, impressions of things, minuscule bits of instinct. The more he rebuilds himself, the less fragmented those pieces become, the more solid they grow. More self-awareness, stronger sensations, coordinations, core components of himself.

And the more he puts himself together, the stronger he gets. The world grows brighter. The ominous presence of the violet flames are still there, and there’s still  _ pain,  _ but it’s bearable. He builds himself the strength to keep going, and keep going, and keep going.

He becomes aware of things outside his own mind more often. It’s still so far away, so distant, like a hazy, easily forgotten dream. But he can feel himself on his back, on softness. He can hear distant, soothing chanting, and voices that talk to him, even if they’re too muddled and fuzzy to understand the words. Gentle touches on his left arm, and fingers curled around his own. 

(They never hold the right hand, which is a pity. Their hands are cool and soothing, and his right hand always  _ burns.  _ It would feel good, he thinks. But he can’t figure out how to get his thoughts outside of himself to ask).

He’s not floating or sinking, he realizes eventually. He’s in a dark, deep pit. He’d been left to rot there. But he can escape, if he can only manage to build a tower of the fragments of himself up into the light again. 

_ Third time's the charm,  _ the man in the white armor says. He doesn’t understand that, but he nods along anyway. 

This vision is there, sometimes. It says things he doesn’t understand, sometimes. He has a strange feeling the man is just as important as the fragments, but he doesn’t quite understand how. 

It hardly matters. In the end, he needs to put himself back together, so he builds and builds with the scattered fragments around him and goes higher and higher.

Things become more coherent, the farther he builds and the farther he climbs. The voices outside himself get clearer, and he eavesdrops as he works, trying to understand.

“Is there nothing we can do to help him? It’s been a week.”

“I am doing everything I can, but my healing wasn’t meant for minds. Physically, his brain is fine. I even healed the concussion days ago. Mentally…”

“And we don’t know  _ any  _ telepaths? Isn’t Nyma a telepath?”

“You heard her, she’s  _ barely  _ one, half her powers don’t even work on Shiro, and she’s no match for a  _ johrlac.  _ Unless you know a  _ friendly  _ cuckoo…”

“Yeah, sure. Let me just go find one of those, then.”

_ Sarcasm,  _ one of his newly acquired fragments identifies. How confusing.

He climbs higher and builds higher and climbs higher again. He feels stronger, enough to keep going, enough to mostly ignore the raging, violent, ever-present flames and the endless litany of  _ not mine not mine not mine.  _

“—arm still isn’t healing.”

“My powers don’t seem to have any effect on it. They aren’t normal scars. It doesn’t feel  _ wrong,  _ but it isn’t normal.”

“If it stays like that it’s going to get worse, isn’t it? The edges already look infected…”

“I  _ think  _ my counter-runes have contained it, but I’m just not sure. I’ve never seen anything like this before. He could still be in pain, and I’ve only suppressed it enough we can’t see it.”

“We might be forced to amputate, if this goes on too much longer.”

_ “Amputate?  _ And then what? Using everything he learned to fight for peace is his  _ life.  _ How’s he going to keep fighting if we take his  _ arm  _ away without giving him a choice in the matter?”

“He could die—” 

“It’s  _ Shiro’s choice  _ either way!”

“He’s not in a position to  _ make  _ that choice, Keith. He doesn’t even react to outside things like Sam says he did when they were captured. If we need to choose between his arm and dying—”

“You’re  _ not  _ cutting his arm off!” 

“We can contain it for a few more days, maybe. We’ll have to make the call eventually, though, if he doesn’t wake to make it on his own...”

“It is...resistant. But I will keep trying to do my best to heal him.” 

_ “HAIL! Hail the selflessness of the Lion Goddess! Hail the Undying Loyalty of its Patron High Priest!”  _

“Hush! Don’t disturb him.”

_ “HAIL!”  _

“For goodness sake…”

It doesn’t sound  _ great  _ outside. A sense of urgency fills him. He needs to reach those voices. He needs to be  _ together  _ again. The tower is nearly complete, the fragments nearly all placed, and the urge to be whole is nearly maddening.

He works with a focused determination one of the fragments grants him. He pursues the end doggedly, tirelessly, relentlessly. And then at last, every part of him is nearly in place, and only one sliver yet remains. 

_ You’ve done it,  _ the man in the white armor says. He smiles. 

_ You told me to,  _ he answers-but-doesn’t.  _ But I’m not done yet. There’s one piece— _

_ I have it. It’s mine. You knew that already.  _

_ Then hurry— _

_ The last piece is the heaviest. It ties everything together. But when you have it, you’ll wish you didn’t. Do you still want it? _

_ Yes,  _ he answers.  _ I don’t care what it takes. I need to be whole. I need to be out there again. Give it to me. What is it? _

The man in the white armor regards him for a long moment.  _ It’s me,  _ he says finally.  _ The last piece. It’s memory.  _

There’s an ominous ring to that. But it’s too late to turn back. And he doesn’t want to, anyway.

The man in the white armor turns, and presses his hands to the space for the final fragment.  _ Wake up,  _ he says,  _ and remember.  _ He vanishes in a flash of light—

—and the demon isn’t a demon, it’s a woman, who reaches inside his mind and breaks it in half and drains the fragments out of him and everything is agony—

—and red lines resolve into bloodied bodies and he’s  _ too late too late too late— _

—and a shadow corrupts a soul of the world while he contemplates the salvation of one soul over thousands—

—and he kills the wrong people time and time again and never tries to learn there’s a better way—

—and more die because he’s too slow to figure it out, too slow to save them—

—and he kills and kills and kills in the wrong with hands so red they’ll never be clean—

—mistake after mistake after mistake after mistake after mistake after mistake—

—and yet despite it all he  _ learns,  _ and he tries  _ harder,  _ tries to be  _ better,  _ and always, always,  _ always  _ there are those around him who care and never  _ stop  _ caring—

—and he remembers the terrible things, and his memory had been right, it’s  _ heavy,  _ and he wishes he hadn’t done those things, said those things, made those mistakes—

—but he remembers the good things too. He remembers his friends. He remembers his  _ family.  _ And he accepts them all, good and bad, and—

—he opens his eyes.

For a long moment, he stares, disoriented. His vision is blurry, but he blinks, and it clears a little. He stares at a ceiling that isn’t his. Late afternoon sunlight shimmers over it. He’s on his back, on something soft. There’s gentle murmuring all around him, and a quiet snore. His right arm throbs, and he’s a little sore, but mostly he’s comfortable.

The gentle murmuring halts. Something scuttles near his ear, and a high pitched voice says in awe, “High Priest? Have you Truly Returned?”

He blinks. After a very long moment, he wearily turns his head, to spot a black-dyed Aeslin mouse in full regalia standing next to his pillow. The mouse’s front paws are clasped together in hopeful anticipation, and it leans forward, ink-drop eyes bright.

Shiro regards him for a long moment. He licks his lips, and struggles to say through a dry, awful-tasting mouth, “I guess.” It comes out soft and weak and a little slurring, but he’s proud he actually manages the words.

The mouse stands up ramrod straight and yells joyously,  _ “HAIL! HAIL THE RETURN OF THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS! HAIL THE RETURN FROM THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE MIND!”  _

And all around the room, a chorus of high-pitched voices answer with an equally loud,  _ “HAIL!”  _

Shiro moans. “Volume,” he says, his voice more pleading than he’d like, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please.” 

“My apologies, High Priest!” the mouse says, dropping its pitch immediately. It scampers away over to a night stand, and announces loudly (but not  _ as  _ loudly, thank the universe), “The Sacred Law of Do Not Disturb The Patient is enacted, for the protection of the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness! Obey, for the preservation of the High Priest!”

“HAIL!” a chorus of mice whisper, in response.

At least they’re  _ trying.  _

The snoring comes to an abrupt halt with the cheers, and a voice to his left mutters, “Ugh, guys, what is it now?”

“The High Priest has Returned, High Priest of Most Holy and Spectacular Feasts!” one of the mice answers. 

“What? Shiro? Holy Athena, Shiro, are you  _ awake?”  _

Shiro wearily turns his head the other way, to find Hunk hovering anxiously by his bedside, his snakes in a calm cluster around his head and flicking their tongues curiously. “Yes,” he says, and he’s pleased to hear his voice is a little stronger this time. “More or less.”

“Holy crow,” Hunk gasps. “I don’t believe it, I don’t—um, mice! Go get everyone else and let them know Shiro’s up! Especially Allura, she’ll want to look him over now that he’s awake.” The mice cheer, and several of them scatter, rushing for the far door Shiro can make out over Hunk’s shoulder. “Oh man, oh man, Keith’s gonna be  _ so  _ mad you woke up during the day. I mean, sunset is only a couple hours away, but  _ still.”  _

The onslaught of rambling words is familiar, coming from Hunk, but a little overwhelming. “Slow down,” he says. “What happened?”

“Oh man,” Hunk says, pulling up a chair. “You don’t remember? Well, I guess that’s fair. You’ve been out of it for like...a little over a week. And before that you were  _ missing  _ for over a week. Do you remember? You went to the Unilu Flea Market with Lance, and then you disappeared on him.”

“Right,” Shiro says slowly. It all comes rushing back to him now. “Saw the werelion that did the killings. Went to chase him. Then—”

His eyes widen. Then  _ she  _ happened. 

He reaches for Hunk’s wrist with his left hand. There’s an IV line that pulls on him when he does, and he hisses a little from general soreness from not moving for a week, but he still manages to grab on surprisingly fast. “Johrlac,” he rasps frantically. “There’s a johrlac—working for Galra—we need to be careful, get protection charms, rework our strategy—”

_ “Easy,  _ Shiro,” Hunk says, patting his hand. “It’s okay, we already know—”

_ “No,”  _ Shiro insists. They can’t know the  _ true  _ extent of the danger, johrlac are  _ deadly  _ and none of them have ever encountered one that he knows of. They’re not prepared. 

He frantically tries to push himself up into a sit, to climb out of bed. But pain flares in his right arm immediately, hot and bright and insistent, and he gasps. 

“Relax!” Hunk says, pressing carefully against his shoulders to keep him down. “Don’t try to get up yet. Trust me, you can’t. You’ve been in a coma or something for a week, Shiro. You’re still hurt. And you’re, uh, kind of stuck in bed for a bit, until the doctors let you up.”

The IV line tugs at his left arm as he settles it against the bed again, so Hunk is probably right. Not to mention that the pulling sensation farther down when he’d tried to get up, which probably meant he was hooked up to a catheter as well. It’s embarrassing and uncomfortable to wake up to, but he’s definitely stuck there even if he did have the strength to get up, which he doesn’t.

“We already know about the johrlac,” Hunk says, once Shiro grudgingly settles. “We even got her name. It’s Haggar. We know most of the other stuff too. When we rescued you, we also found Sam and Matt—Pidge’s family? They told us most of what happened. So it’s okay, for now. You just gotta focus on getting better.”

“He’s quite right,” Allura says, as she enters the room, with several Aeslin mice scrambling after her. She smiles at Shiro, and the feathers on her wings puff out a little in a display he’s long since come to recognize as happiness. “I am delighted to see you awake, Shiro! You had us all very worried.” 

Behind her, others trail in as well. Coran, with a brilliant smile, and a pitcher of water in his hands. Lance, with a relieved grin on his face, but a guilty tension in his shoulders. Pidge, with a positively delighted look on her face—followed by her brother, father,  _ and  _ mother, all of whom look equally happy. The only one missing is Keith, but based on the late-afternoon sunlight in the room, it will be a while before he’s conscious. 

“Everyone’s okay,” Shiro says, breathing a sigh of relief. After learning about the johrlac, he’d been worried, but if they were all here…

“Is he seriously worried about  _ us?”  _ Matt asks in disbelief. “The guy who’s been in a coma for a week?”

“That’s our Shiro,” Coran says cheerfully. “Always looking after others. I bet you’d like some water, hmm, number one?”

“Please,” Shiro says gratefully. His mouth tastes disgusting and dry. 

Coran obligingly pours a glass of water, complete with straw. “I’ll have to hold it for you,” he says, which is frustrating, but Shiro couldn’t hold a glass if he wanted to right now. His throbbing right arm sees to that. He accepts the straw when it’s placed near him and takes several grateful sips of water, swishing it around in his mouth and getting rid of the awful taste.

“How are you feeling?” Allura asks, once he’s done. 

“Weak,” he says. “Tired. A little sore all over. My right arm hurts the most.” Allura’s expression falters at that, and behind her, the others exchange nervous, uncomfortable looks. 

Shiro frowns. That meant something to them. But it  _ doesn’t  _ to him. He searches through his memories of his capture, trying to find the reason. His memories after the johrlac had been hazy and distorted; he hadn’t really understood what was happening to him. Trying to make sense of it even now is difficult and complicated. 

But he does remember certain things. He remembers first being captured. He remembers being injured in his escape attempts. He remembers getting multiple head injuries, and one of the guards breaking his leg. He doesn’t have any residual pain from any of  _ those  _ injuries, which doubtless means Allura’s healed them over the course of the week.

But he doesn’t remember being severely injured in his right arm at any point. He remembers  _ fire _ —excruciating, burning  _ agony,  _ like his arm was alight from the inside—but he doesn’t remember  _ why.  _ Even now, his right arm throbs, and he can weakly feel that heat against his side, like it’s feverish. But he doesn’t know how it came to be in the first place.

“What happened to me?” he asks softly, almost whispering. 

Nobody answers, not even the mice. Everyone watches in growing, awkward silence. 

He decides to find out for himself. He looks at his right arm for the first time since waking, a little afraid of what he’ll see. It’s difficult, laying down as he is, but his arm is swathed in bandages from fingertips to halfway up his upper arm. Not an inch of skin is visible. And on the bandages—

He squints in disbelief. The pure white bandages are covered in symbols. Runes of some kind, drawn in sharpie, on nearly every available surface. 

He stares. After a long moment, he tries to lift his hand, to get a better understanding of exactly what he’s seeing. But burning pain shoots up his arm when he does, and he gasps, immediately abandoning trying to move it. The pain recedes when he stops, but never goes away entirely. Whatever injury those bandages concealed, it was terrible.

_ She  _ had done this. Haggar. She’d done this to him, and still he doesn’t know  _ what  _ she’d done.

_ Evolution. She talked of evolution. She said I was going to evolve.  _

“What did she do to me?” he asks. More insistent this time. More desperate. He looks at each of them. “Tell me what  _ happened.”  _

Silence, as everyone exchanges looks again. But finally, it’s Sam Holt who steps forward, and who speaks with a surprisingly gentle, reassuring voice. “We aren’t sure exactly what she did to you, son. But I can take an educated guess. I  _ think  _ she gave you magic.”

_ Gave you magic.  _

_ Humans are uniquely designed by evolution for their adaptability. Amongst other things, some are designed by nature to be magically gifted. _

That was what she’d said, right before tearing his mind to pieces. It tracked. It made sense.

Except it  _ didn’t.  _ “Why would she even do that?” he asks. “Why make me  _ stronger?  _ And why does it hurt so bad?” No one would  _ ever  _ use magic if it was this agonizing. No one would ever  _ survive  _ it. 

“It’s complicated,” Sam says. “And I’m not sure that I have the true answers. Just a theory. But I think it would be best to go back to the beginning and explain it from there. It’s confusing enough as it is.”

Shiro nods, if grudgingly. He wants the answers  _ now,  _ but if he needs context to answer them, fine then. 

Everyone sits down on chairs scattered around the room. There’s enough for everyone, which makes him wonder if they’d held vigil for him while he’d...been in a coma, apparently. The thought of them sitting around and watching helplessly while he remained steadily unconscious makes his stomach flip uncomfortably. He’d really scared them. 

“You remember when you were first imprisoned with us?” Sam asks after a moment, gesturing to himself and Matt.

“Yes.”

“You remember, you said you thought the johrlac had different plans for you?”

He shudders. It sends another dull, burning pain up his arm. “Yes.”

Sam presses his lips together, as if considering how to explain. “We weren’t allowed to see you for a while, after our first escape attempt,” he says. “They kept you apart from us. When we did finally see you again, it was at the final ritual site.”

Shiro frowns. “The what?”

“We told you about it before,” Matt explains helpfully. “The center of the ritual. It’s where they store the bodies after they kill them. My dad and I got taken there a lot to oversee the arrangement of the ritual.” He shivers.

“Right,” Shiro says slowly. “You did mention that. Blindfolded. Didn’t know where it was.”

They both nod. “But they brought  _ you  _ there, too,” Sam says. “A few days after the first escape.”

Shiro’s frown grows deeper. “I don’t remember that,” he says. But if it was a few days after he’d tried to get Sam and Matt out...she would have broken his mind in half by then. He hadn’t comprehended much more than shapes, colors, noises and unimaginable pain.

“You probably wouldn’t have understood,” Sam admits sadly. “You were...you were not in good shape, son. She tried to force you to empower the ritual—to pour power into it and speed it up. Blood rituals like that require power gained at intervals through ritual sacrifice and the gradual coalescing of energy. A sorcerer could force power into it, make it go much faster. I think she wanted you to finish the ritual that night and summon whatever she’s trying to reach.”

Shiro pales. If that had worked, he would have opened the door for the wholesale destruction of Earth, and everything else in this reality.

_ I want to go home. And  _ you  _ are going to help me get there.  _

But there was one problem with that entire theory. “I’m not a sorcerer,” Shiro rasps. “I’m not magical at all. I never could have done that.”

“You  _ weren’t  _ magical,” Sam corrects quietly. “But she did  _ something  _ to you. I’ve never seen anything like it. I think...this is just a guess, but I  _ think  _ she bound a sorcerer’s magic into your arm. The transplant didn’t kill you, so she expected you to be able to wield it.” 

Shiro stares at him. 

_ Bound  _ a sorcerer’s magic? It’s literally not possible. Sorcerers are hereditary, and even in families with known magical blood, they’re incredibly rare. Sorcerers skip generations—sometimes more than one—and are uncommon even in the lineages with known bloodlines. The Covenant had made them even rarer, hunting down and wiping out entire generations and lineages for the so-called preservation of humanity.

But they were never  _ made.  _ They were always  _ born.  _ It might take them years to awaken their magic, but they were  _ always  _ real. There isn’t a chance in hell the Shirogane clan had any sorcerer blood in their lineage; they would have carefully culled any hint of sorcery out of their line for the purest warriors possible.

_ You’re about to evolve. Congratulations, Shirogane. _

_ No. _

“She can’t,” he says harshly. “It can’t be  _ done.  _ That’s not how it works.”

And yet, he can’t help but think back to the vision he saw time and time again, in his broken-minded madness: violet flames, held in a cage, screaming over and over and over,  _ not mine.  _

He shudders.

“I didn’t think so either,” Sam says. “But she certainly did  _ something  _ to you. That night...I don’t know if you really understood what was happening. She tried to force you to touch the ritual circle with your right arm. I think she might have been mentally controlling you to do so. But when you did…” He falters, as if unsure how to describe it.

“Fire,” Matt supplies. His eyes look haunted—a strange look on a bogeyman. “Your arm was just... _ on fire.  _ Purple fire. And you just kept yelling. It was hurting you. But it didn’t incinerate your arm. It just kept burning, without fuel.”

“It was the purest expression of the physical force of heat,” Sam says. “Sorcerers operate through elements. Not the classical elements like earth, water, air and fire, but actual physical forces—gravity, heat, cold, and the like. That was undeniably sorcerer’s fire.”

Shiro’s stomach churns uncomfortably, and his right arm throbs, angry and insistent.  _ Purple fire. Violet flames in a cage. Not mine, not mine, not mine.  _

He shivers. “But I didn’t do it,” he says, after a long moment.

“I’m not sure that you could,” Sam says. “I don’t think you knew how. The fact that the magic didn’t immediately kill you is a miracle, but it’s not as simple as binding it to you and making you an artificial sorcerer. It isn’t an organ transplant. It would be like attaching an extra arm to you. Maybe you could successfully connect a third limb, but your brain wouldn’t know how to use it, and your body wasn’t designed for the strain of providing extra nutrients and attention to a thing it wasn’t made for.” 

Shiro gives the wrapped, rune-covered bandages a weary look. Then this is a  _ thing  _ that causes him suffering, that he can’t even use. “I see.” At least he hadn’t opened the door to the end of the world, if only because he literally  _ couldn’t.  _

“I still don’t get  _ why,  _ though,” Pidge says. “Why jump through these extra hoops to give  _ Shiro  _ this magic? How do you even get a hold of a sorcerer’s magic? And if she had it, why not just use it on herself, if she wanted that power so bad?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits tiredly. Colleen pats him reassuringly on the arm. “I just don’t know. She seemed to want to force Shiro to do it, like a puppet, but I don’t know why she would use such a convoluted process to begin with.”

But Shiro remembers, hazily, his last  _ sane  _ conversation with the johrlac. If she’d known he could put his mind back together on his own, she probably wouldn’t have bothered to tell him. But he was supposed to be a broken, empty puppet. They couldn’t remember things. They couldn’t pass information along. 

Shiro isn’t broken anymore. Not in that way. And he  _ remembers,  _ thanks to that last fragment.

“She can’t use it,” he says softly.

They all frown. “What do you mean?” Allura asks, after a long moment.

“She can’t use it,” Shiro repeats. “She told me, when she was getting ready to…” He hesitates, and nods slowly at his arm. “Do that, I guess. Johrlac have their own kind of magic. It’s...it’s math, or equations, or something.”

_ “Math?”  _ Lance asks incredulously. “Magic is  _ math?  _ Now I  _ know  _ that lady is crazy.”

But the Holts look thoughtful, and Hunk shakes his head, making his snakes sway gently. “No, that makes sense,” he says after a moment. “I mean, most of the known universe can be explained mathematically. You see it in nature all the time—like the Fibonacci sequence patterns in plants and animals.” 

“Yeah,” Pidge agrees. “Everything in the universe can be  _ explained  _ with math, so I guess technically speaking, it’s all  _ made  _ of math.”

“And if you could change the math with the right equations, you could change things in the world,” Matt finishes, eyes wide. “Wow. That’s  _ big.”  _

“That’s  _ boring,”  _ Lance grouses. “Way to take the coolness out of  _ magic.”  _

“Magic is just its own set of physics and reality at the end of the day, son,” Sam lectures. “But this could certainly explain a few things. If this johrlac was unable to use a sorcerer’s magic—”

“She can’t,” Shiro confirms, squeezing his eyes shut to try and remember. “I don’t think she can even fully use her own kind of magic. She said...she said something about  _ instars.  _ Only a fully evolved johrlac could even harness their biggest equations, and she wasn’t that. She was trying to evolve herself so she could. And that their most powerful equations could manipulate reality.” 

“Manipulate reality,” Allura repeats slowly. “That sounds dangerous.” 

“And not unlike what she’s doing now, with the blood ritual,” Sam adds, frowning. “She’s using the cultists and their networks as fodder to build power in a different way. It sounds like she’s trying to find ways around this... _ evolutionary  _ block.”

“Like forcing magic into somebody else, and making them use it,” Coran sums up, scowling. “Of all the dirty, underhanded methods—”

“But she already  _ had  _ magic, didn’t she?” Lance asks, confused. “I mean, the rituals kept disappearing, and Shiro guessed it was a sorcerer…”

“Shiro said she couldn’t  _ fully  _ use her own magic,” Pidge says. “But what if she could, partially? If she...evolved herself to this  _ instar  _ thing, or whatever. If they manipulate realities, all they need to do is know the equations to make something not there where something used to be. Boom.” 

“You can have magic users who are very good at only one thing,” Matt agrees grimly. “It just sucks that the one thing she’s good at here makes it impossible to stop her.”

Shiro sighs. He’s exhausted already by this whole conversation, but he still hasn’t gotten his answers. “So she wanted to use me as a shortcut for her ritual, and she couldn’t. Then what? Why didn’t she just kill me, if I was a failed experiment?”

Sam and Matt hesitate, exchanging glances. 

“I deserve to know,” Shiro says.  _ “I’m  _ the one who suffered through it. They’re my answers to have.”

“We understand,” Sam says. “It’s just...hard to explain.”

“She, um...she wanted to use you as the next blood sacrifice,” Matt says. “I guess she figured you owed her for causing her trouble or something. And it would have been another experiment, to see if sacrificing a magic-infused person would add more power than a normal one. Only it was still a few days away, so we were ordered to take care of you until then, and keep you alive. You were...you were in bad shape. And hurting a lot. Your arm wasn’t healing.” 

Shiro doesn’t remember much of that.  _ Pain,  _ mostly. Kind-voices...he can equate those to Sam and Matt, now, which matches what they said.

“I found a way to...suppress the magic, I suppose,” Sam says. “With counter-runes. I drew them on your arm while we were captured...it seemed to cause you less pain, at least. Those are the markings on your bandages now.” 

“We rescued you not long after,” Hunk adds. “We finally figured out where you were—in this creepy abandoned hospital with these charm bags hidden all around it to make people forget to look in it.”

“Keith got a whole army together to bust in and get you out,” Lance says. “It was pretty cool, actually. We got to you just in the nick of time—the sacrifices were the next night.”

“But people still died,” Shiro says quietly.

Everyone exchanges uneasy glances. “Yes,” Allura says after a moment. “And that is tragic. But we were able to keep  _ you  _ out of the circle, at least.”

That doesn’t feel like much of a blessing. Not when the murder hasn’t really been stopped. Not at the price of having his mind broken in half, or being infused with a sorcerer’s essence that’s hurting him.

“Why is my arm still like this?” he asks, after a long moment. “The other injuries—they’re gone. My leg doesn’t hurt, or my head. So why my arm?” 

And, in his head, the real question he’s afraid to ask:  _ will I ever be able to even use it again?  _ It hurts every time he so much as shifts it. It can’t be like this forever. It  _ can’t.  _

Sam frowns. “It wasn’t healing properly when we were imprisoned, either.”

“I have tried to focus my energies on it, but the wounds are not responsive,” Allura says, deeply apologetic. “There is...resistance. I don’t know how to explain it better than that. I can continue to try, but…”

“You mustn’t exhaust yourself, miss,” Coran chides gently. “You’ve been doing all you can.”

“Don’t hurt yourself for me, Allura,” Shiro agrees tiredly. “But...you can do me a different favor.”

“And that would be?” she asks, curious.

“I need to see it.” He nods slowly towards his arm. “Under all of... _ this.”  _

They hesitate. “I’m not sure that’s wise, son,” Sam says. “You’ve only just woken after a week. There’s no need to push things.”

“It isn’t pushing things,” Shiro says. “It’s  _ my  _ arm. I need to know what I’m dealing with. She did this to  _ me.”  _

Allura bites her lip. “I don’t know if you’re ready to see, Shiro.”

“Please,” he nearly begs. “I don’t think you can understand what this is like. She did things to me against my will and I don’t even understand the extent of it. It’s my  _ arm.  _ It’s attached to me. That can’t just be an unknown. I can’t live like that.”

He can’t live with that constant, throbbing pain, and not even understand the true cause. The  _ extent  _ of it. He can’t sleep like that. He can’t.

They don’t look happy about it, but after a moment, Allura nods. “I suppose that is your right. But please tell me if you wish to stop at any point. I suppose I need to take a look at its progress anyway…”

“Good. Please.” 

Allura cautiously stands, and approaches the other side of the bed, and his bandaged, rune-covered arm. Coran goes with her, with a tray full of medical supplies pulled from a nearby cabinet, and a fresh roll of bandages. 

It’s  _ agony.  _ Even moving his arm a little hurts, and they’re forced to lift it and maneuver it to unwind the bandages from his arm. Part of him wants them to stop almost immediately, or maybe to just pass out, because it would be easier. There really is bliss in ignorance, sometimes.

But he grits his teeth against it, digs his left fingers into the blanket, and lets them continue. Allura is as gentle as possible, unwrapping the bandages, and for that at least Shiro is grateful. Coran helps her keep his arm steady, and it’s clear they’ve had a lot of practice at this.

He lets them work, and watches with horrified fascination as the wrappings fall away, and the flesh beneath is revealed.

There are symbols carved into his skin, and they’re  _ everywhere.  _ His palm. The back of his hand. Tiny ones on his fingers. Larger ones on his forearm, around his wrist, up to his bicep. The wounds still look fresh, barely scabbed over even though more than a week has passed, and the skin around each slice is red and inflamed from infection. Other, smaller symbols are scribbled neatly in marker in the rare spaces of whole skin that are left—probably the counter-runes Sam had mentioned, suppressing the magic from burning him alive. But most of his skin is a mutilated, carved mess of interlocking, awful symbols. 

Shiro stares. There’s nothing in all of  _ existence  _ but for those terrible, red, jagged lines gouged into his skin. 

“-ro? Shiro? You okay? Talk to us, man.”

Shiro blinks, dazed. Everyone is staring at him with concern and alarm. They’re all waiting for him to speak, and he says the first, haphazard thought that floats across his mind. “I guess I’m never wearing T-shirts again. My students at the studio would think I joined a cult.” His lips twitch into a sickly smile. “Which...I guess I kind of did.” 

They continue to stare at him. Lance’s jaw drops, and Sam, Colleen, Coran, and Allura all frown. For some reason, that seems  _ hilarious,  _ and Shiro breaks into a breathy, hysterical sort of laughter. 

It doesn’t last long. With a churning sensation, Shiro’s stomach rebels, and he abruptly tries to scramble upright. 

“He’s gonna—”

“The bin!”

They move surprisingly fast. Coran slips an arm behind Shiro’s shoulders and heaves him upright, just as Lance shoves an empty trash bin under his chin. He heaves, but he’s been on an IV for a week, and there’s nothing in his stomach but bile and a few sips of water. He loses it all anyway, dribbling it into the bin with an awful moan.

Hunk makes sympathetic noises. “Dry heaves are the worst. I’m sorry, Shiro.”

Somebody runs a hand up and down his back. It takes him a long moment to realize it’s Colleen, and that she’s murmuring soothingly to him. “It’s alright, Shiro. Try to relax.”

Relax.  _ Relax.  _ What a joke. His arm has been carved up by a psychotic johrlac obsessed with  _ evolution,  _ everything  _ hurts,  _ and he’s currently losing the meager contents of his stomach in front of nearly all of his friends. Relax.  _ Sure.  _

His stomach calms eventually, but his mind doesn’t, and neither does his pain. He leans wearily against Coran’s grip, unable to sit up on his own otherwise, and stares dazedly into the trash bin until Lance takes it away with a curled nose. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Probably smells terrible to you.”

“Please,” Lance answers. “My nose is used to  _ Hunk’s  _ vomit.”

“Hey!” 

Shiro feels too tired to care about the forced banter. He’s just... _ exhausted,  _ all of a sudden, even though nothing at all of consequence has happened.

“We’ll take care of your arm,” Allura says, after a moment. “You don’t need to watch.”

“Yes, I do,” Shiro says wearily. It would be impossible not to, anyway. 

Allura doesn’t look happy about it, but she can’t stop him. He watches as she examines the gouges carefully, running her fingertips just barely over the wounds. Her touch is feather-light and gentle, but it sends spikes of pain through him anyway, and he winces. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know it’s sensitive…”

“Just keep going,” he insists. He just wants it to be done and over with, now. He wants those awful wounds to go away. He hates the sight of them.

He doesn’t regret asking to see them, though. At least he  _ knows,  _ however painful the knowledge is. 

She tries to heal them, wings glowing as she closes her eyes and concentrates her power on the runes carved into his skin. It doesn’t work, and now that he’s awake, he can... _ feel  _ that resistance that she talked of, earlier. It’s distant, and hazy, something he’s only just barely aware of for the first time. But he can feel her energy trying to sink into his arm, into the gouges, and he can feel the heat inside repelling it. 

“I’m sorry,” she says helplessly. “It’s still not working. We’ll just have to treat them normally, for now.” 

He nods tiredly, and watches with rapidly draining focus as she and Sam review the marks drawn in sharpie on his skin, redraw a few of the faded ones, and then slather his injuries with medication to try and prevent infection. That stings, but in a good, clean way, and he bears it to the best of his ability. Then they wrap his arm again in fresh bandages, and Sam remarks them with the binding runes. 

By the time they’re done, Shiro is suffering. He’s exhausted and in so much pain he can barely think straight. Coran helps him lay down again, and they arrange his arm carefully next to him again so it won’t be jarred, and even  _ that  _ is agony. 

“We can give you something to help you sleep, if you like,” Coran says. “One of Sanctuary’s doctors has been attending you. She left us something to use if you woke up and needed it.”

Shiro doesn’t like taking medications like that unless he absolutely has to. He doesn’t like losing awareness or control of himself. But it’s a measure of how much he’s hurting that he only nods once, wearily, and permits it. 

It doesn’t take long. Coran does something with the IV line, and almost immediately Shiro’s mind is slipping away. “We’ll be here when you wake again,” Allura reassures. “One of us is always with you. Rest well, Shiro. I hope you feel a little better when you wake.”

So does he.

But sleep is no sanctuary. His friends fade from his awareness, but he dreams of caged, violet flames, burning angrily against a double layer of thick, iron bars, screaming  _ not mine, not mine, not mine.  _

* * *

When Shiro wakes again, the window is dark, but a few dim lamps are lit and cast a gentle glow around the room. A plethora of Aeslin mice still remain, but the law about not disturbing the patient seems to still be in effect. They pause in the middle of their chanted prayers to welcome him back to wakefulness, but refrain from high pitched cheering.

Keith is there this time, and he sits up almost as soon as Shiro opens his eyes. “Shiro? You okay?”

No. Not really. The moment he wakes his arm hurts again, and he’s aware of it again, and he wants nothing so much as to go back into sleep and unawareness. But his sleep had been restless and uncomfortable, too. There’s really no escape anywhere.

So instead he just says tiredly, “I’m awake.”

Keith recognizes this as a dodge immediately, but he doesn’t push, for which Shiro is incredibly grateful. Instead he plays along. “I’m glad,” Keith says. “I missed you by less than an hour this afternoon.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” Keith says. “I’m just...I’m glad you’re awake at all. You...you scared me really bad, Shiro. Allura didn’t think you’d ever wake up again. She didn’t have a way to fix your mind. We weren’t sure…” He pauses, and shakes his head. “Sorry. But you needed to rest, from what they told me. It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I scared you, Keith.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s  _ hers.”  _ Keith scowls for a moment, then shakes his head again. “Did you want to try some water?”

His mouth feels dry and gross again, and he nods. “Please.”

Keith pours him a glass and holds the drink for him while Shiro takes small sips through a straw, like before. While Shiro drinks, Keith fills him in on updates. “Everyone told me what you explained earlier, so I’m caught up on everything. Now that you’re awake, one of the Sanctuary doctors will by to take a look at you tomorrow morning. If they think you’re okay, they can take you off all the tubes and you can try and eat some real food.”

Shiro’s stomach gurgles at the thought of real food. He hopes he gets the okay soon. Being trapped in bed and completely dependent on the others is miserable when compiled on top of everything else.

When he has his fill of water, Keith sets the glass on the nightstand, and regards him with concern. “Anything else I can do for you right now?”

Shiro shakes his head. 

Keith frowns. “Are you sure? Your heart rate is a little high right now…”

Of  _ course  _ Shiro didn’t need to be hooked up to heart monitors. Not when he had living ones in residence. “Arm hurts,” he admits. “That’s why. Nothing you can do about it, Keith. It’s okay.”

It’s true. His arm has been a dull, burning throb since he woke, making him forcibly aware of it by his side. It’s neatly wrapped up again in bandages and containment runes, but Shiro can still imagine the awful, mutilated skin and symbols beneath them, and he can  _ feel  _ the internal, slow building pressure in his bones, smouldering and aching. 

Keith sags guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “We weren’t fast enough.”

Shiro gives him an incredulous look. “Keith, this is hardly  _ your  _ fault.”

“It is, though!” He insists, crossing his arms. “We figured out the basic plan just a few days after you were taken, about one giant ritual circle being made throughout the city.  _ This  _ wouldn’t have happened to you yet. We were on the route to find you for over a week. We thought we looked in that hospital a dozen times. We were  _ that close.  _ We could have saved you from this. I didn’t even  _ realize…”  _

“Keith.”

Keith stops, and meets his eyes.

“This  _ isn’t  _ your fault,” Shiro says. And despite his own frustrations with his situation, despite his pain and his exhaustion and his anger, he  _ means  _ that. “You couldn’t have known. Hunk said there were memory charms. They were designed to make you turn away. The person who did this to me was a johrlac. They’re  _ masters  _ when it comes to memory. It isn’t your fault that you didn’t see it fast enough.”

Keith groans. “I know that makes sense,” he says. “But it doesn’t  _ feel  _ right.”

“Well, it  _ is  _ right,” Shiro says. “And based on what Lance said, it sounds like  _ you  _ were responsible for rescuing me.” 

“It wasn’t just me. Everyone helped.”

Shiro actually manages a weak smile. “But they said  _ you  _ organized the break in. That’s pretty good, Keith. You saved me. Thank you.”

Keith gives him a weak smile in return. “Yeah. Well. You saved my life years ago. I’m never going to forget that.”

“It’s not about exchange, Keith. You don’t  _ owe  _ me anything.”

Keith gives him a disbelieving look. Shiro doesn’t try to push the argument further. He knows he wouldn’t have any effect.

His arm blazes with pain, interrupting the conversation, and Shiro can’t help but gasp as he squeezes his eyes shut. He digs his right fingers into the bedding, clawing at it, and that helps and hurts more all at the same time. 

“Shiro?” Keith is there immediately, attentive and alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Arm. Just hurts. A  _ lot,”  _ Shiro grits out. 

“Do you want me to get Allura?”

“Don’t know what she could do,” Shiro hisses, digging his fingers still deeper into the blanket. “Her healing...doesn’t work. No sense...making her guilty.” 

“Can I do anything?” Keith asks. 

But Shiro only shakes his head, and does his best to breathe through the pain, trying to restore it to its usual dull throb. His arm protests violently, pressure flaring higher, and for a moment Shiro is nearly breathless. He could almost swear it’s throwing a temper tantrum, like it wants to be  _ noticed,  _ if it wasn’t an  _ arm.  _

But eventually the pain returns to it’s moderately more bearable throb. He’s constantly aware of it—he can’t  _ not  _ be—but it isn’t so distracting he can’t focus on anything else.

“-ro? Shiro?”

“Hmm?” he murmurs hazily, blinking at Keith.

“It’s really that bad?” Keith asks, worried. “You didn’t even hear me calling you for a minute...and your heart rate spiked... _ and  _ you were stressed. I could smell it.”

“That will never not be weird,” Shiro mutters. Keith glares at him, and he knows he’s not dodging this question this time. He sighs. “It’s not... _ always  _ that bad, so far,” he says, in his limited experience of two whole times being awake since the injury. “But sometimes it’s worse than others.”

Keith presses his lips together. After a moment he says, “When you were out, they talked about amputation.”

Shiro freezes. “What?”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Keith says immediately. “I said it was your decision to make, not theirs. You need your arm for your work. We couldn’t just take it from you. Sam said it might be causing you pain and we just didn’t know, though. When you were in a coma, there was no way for us to tell. But if it’s really that bad…”

Shiro laughs bitterly. He supposes it is an option, and it might fix  _ this  _ problem. But it might not, either. And even if it did, he’d be down an arm. Being an amputee would come with its own set of challenges. There’s no guarantee he could ever do his job well ever again, or even at all, with only one arm. 

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. There really is no winning choice here.

“You don’t have to decide that now,” Keith says. “Allura can get you doctors to talk to about your choices. You could talk to any of us too, we’d all listen. But if it hurts that bad...well. You don’t have to live with it, is all I’m saying.”

“I can’t back out on this city.”

“You don’t  _ owe  _ Garrison anything,” Keith says. “You’ve done enough.”

“I have too much bloodshed to make up for.”

“It’s not  _ your  _ job to make up for the sins of the  _ entire  _ Covenant.”

“We haven’t even finished  _ this  _ mission. I can’t give up on that yet.”

Keith sighs. “Anyone else would be allowed to retire after what you went through. Just...don’t feel like you have to push yourself so hard. Focus on getting better.” He hesitates. “They  _ need  _ you, Shiro. To get  _ better.  _ Not push so hard you hurt yourself.” 

“Yeah.” Shiro pauses. “I’ll...think about it. Later.” His arm spasms again, burning bright, and he winces, gasping, “Much later. Not now.”

Keith winces. “Again?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want more of that stuff that helps you sleep?” Keith asks, uncertain. “Coran showed me how to do it, just in case, and you should be okay for another dose…”

Not really. Sleep had been uncomfortable and strange, and hadn’t really felt  _ restful,  _ exactly. But it hadn’t  _ hurt,  _ either. He’d been blissfully unaware of the constant torment in his arm. And he really, really can’t deal with this right now.

So after a few horrible seconds of deliberation, he says finally, “Please.”

“Okay.” Keith gets up and fiddles with the IV line, and after a moment sweet  _ relief  _ rushes up his left arm in a cool blast and makes his thoughts run sluggishly. Keith settles down in the chair next to the bed again a moment later, and says, “Just...take it easy for now, Shiro. Rest up. You can figure out everything else later.”

“Mm,” he murmurs sleepily, as his awareness—and his pain—start to slip further away. He sinks down into blessed darkness, with the caged violet flames beating against their confines screaming  _ not mine not mine not mine  _ once again for company.

His last thought, before it winks out completely, is the realization that it’s not the unseen, mutilated scars on his arm that hurt. It’s something deeper, something inside, that beats and burns and builds pressure. 

But the thought slips away from him before he can wonder what that means, and he sinks gratefully into the dark.

* * *

His visit from the doctor goes well, at least, the following morning.

He’s conscious for it, which is a start. He’s managed to stay awake for a whole two hours in the morning, although his arm is  _ killing  _ him. It’s progress, as far as he’s concerned. If he’s going to be like this for the rest of his life, he’ll have to learn to live with it, and that means not retreating into a medicated sleep whenever it hurts too bad.

But  _ god,  _ it hurts too bad a  _ lot.  _

But he’s at least able to focus, more or less, for the doctor. She’s one of the ones Griffin had recruited with Allura’s help, for Sanctuary. She’s a wadjet, and was originally hired to study lycanthropy, since she had an interest in the work and was immune to it as a reptile. However, she also acts as a general physician for most of Griffin’s lycanthropes, since they can’t exactly go to a normal doctor’s office or hospital anymore. 

Griffin had been happy to send her over to help with Shiro, and she’s nice enough, although her bedside manner is rather blunt and to the point. She completes the examination with minimal fuss, at least, which is a relief. Shiro is mostly fine, the doctor declares. A few pounds lost from being unconscious on an IV drip for a week, and a prisoner a week before. A little weak from being out cold for so long, but otherwise a picture of health. 

He’s taken off the IV and the catheter, an embarrassing business that Shiro is nevertheless glad to be done with. Afterwards, he’s also given permission to move around again under his own power—as long as he takes it easy and doesn’t stress himself. His friends promise to reinforce that last part, as do the mice, who quote it like scripture whenever Shiro is ready to test his limits. 

The doctor tries to examine Shiro’s arm too, but admits to being perplexed by it. “The wounds are clean,” she says, as she gently turns Shiro’s arm to examine it, and Shiro tries to keep from screaming. “Miss Allura has informed me of the medications they’ve been using to treat it, and it sounds like exactly what I would have suggested. By all rights, these should be healing fine, but they’re getting infected.” 

“What does that mean?” Shiro asks.

The doctor frowns. “We’ll want to keep an eye on it. If the infections grow worse, and are still resisting treatments, that could be a problem. It might even cost the arm itself, depending on how severe it is.” At Shiro’s horrified look, she hastily reassures, “It isn’t that bad yet, though. Let’s maintain the treatments, and I’ll take another look at it in a day or two. I don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet.”

“Alright,” Shiro says weakly. He allows the wadjet to apply medications to the wounds and rebandage them, although the doctor doesn’t reapply the containment runes. Sam will need to do that after, once she’s gone. The ones on his skin should still be enough to hold it, for now. 

“Hang in there,” the doctor says. “You’ll be just fine. Your gorgon friend is already putting together a broth for you, which should be light on your stomach. Simple meals for today—if you can keep it all down, you can try something with a little more substance tomorrow. I’ll check in on you again, but give me a call if you need me to come back sooner.”

“Will do,” Shiro promises.

The first thing he does with his newfound mobile freedom, the moment the doctor leaves, is take a shower. He has to wrap his bandaged arm in plastic in order to do so safely, but he desperately wants to be clean, after two weeks of imprisonment and unconsciousness. 

He is given a bit of a shock, though, once he makes it to the bathroom. The big mirror over the sink shows him his reflection for the first time since he’s been captured, and he’s stunned at the difference. Besides looking thinner and more exhausted, besides the haunted look in his eyes and the dark lines under them, he’s  _ changed.  _ His previously dark black bangs are now stark white down to the roots. 

He stares at his own reflection for a long time, unable to take his eyes away. He remembers the johrlac slapping her hand down on his forehead, promising that he was going to help her get home. He remembers her digging into his skull, into his  _ mind,  _ forcibly through physical contact. He’d thought the damage from that encounter was all in his head. He hadn’t realized it left physical marks on him as well.

He’s never going to be able to look at himself again and  _ not  _ think about what she did to him. The thought leaves him feeling hollow inside. 

He doesn't know how long he stares at himself, at his new white hair and his bandaged arm and his defeated, thinner than usual frame. He doesn’t know how long he feels her claws in his forehead or hears her promises or his own screaming again. It’s only when his arm throbs insistently, reminding him that it’s there, too, that he finally manages to break away from the reflection of the mirror and step into the shower.

Once he’s clean, dressed, and armed again with a brace of knives and a single firearm his Aeslin followers had thoughtfully provided, he feels a little more like himself again. Not  _ completely— _ his arm still hurts, and lacks any coordination, so all of his weapons are aligned for his left hand only. He’s still tired and weak from his ordeal, and even a simple shower and getting dressed had been exhausting. He can’t quite make himself look at his own reflection again through the fogged-over glass, too nervous to try. Wandering his way down to the sitting room takes more out of him than he’d realized. 

But it’s better than before.

His friends greet him enthusiastically when he makes his way to the sitting room, immediately offering him the most comfortable chair, which he collapses into gratefully. “Hunk’s almost got some soup ready for you,” Pidge tells him. “That’ll help you start to regain your strength.”

Food sounds  _ heavenly,  _ so Shiro nods in agreement. “Sounds great.”

“I made this sling for you, too,” Colleen adds with a smile, gesturing to a pile of cloth on one of the tables. “For your arm. I thought it might help.”

“It should,” Shiro agrees gratefully. His arm still hurts,  _ constantly,  _ alternating between dull pressure and angry spikes of burning pain. Though, curiously, it hadn’t been as bad since the doctor’s visit, and the spikes of pain had been less intense through his shower and walk down here. Maybe she’d used a different medication on the injuries—Shiro will have to ask. Either way, keeping it still and bound would help minimize the times he jarrs it by accident, and causes himself more misery. 

“I’ll help you put it on after you eat, and Sam re-marks your bandages,” Colleen says. 

“That would be appreciated,” he admits. His coordination is lacking for obvious reasons. Full independence will be tougher to get back than he thought.

Hunk’s soup is delicious, if somewhat difficult to eat with his left hand. He’s always been predominantly right handed, and it’s in no state to do something requiring fine motor skills like using a spoon. His friends pretend not to notice him struggling with it, for which he’s grateful, but it’s still a little embarrassing.

Afterwards, Sam takes his arm and remarks it with binding runes as gently as possible. Gentle as he is, moving his arm still  _ hurts,  _ and Shiro grits his teeth against the pain. Finally, in an effort to distract himself, he says, “Where are we on the blood ritual mission currently?”

Everyone stares at him for a long moment. Shiro raises an eyebrow at them. “What?”

“It’s just...you literally just woke up yesterday afternoon, Shiro,” Matt says, after a cautious moment. “You’re still hurt.”

“Did my injury stop Haggar from murdering people when I was out?”

“Well, no,” Allura says. “But—”

“But nothing. I got hurt on a mission, but it’s not over,” Shiro says. “That’s not the first time I’ve been hurt and it probably won’t be the last. It doesn’t mean we get to take a break.”

_ “We  _ won’t,” Lance says. “We’ve still been trying to work on it too. But  _ you  _ could take a break. You’ve earned it.”

Sam finishes the last of the binding runes, and a particularly agonizing spasm passes through Shiro’s arm as it’s released from the bogeyman’s grip. He grits his teeth, clutching the arm close to his chest and waiting for the pain to pass. By the time it’s over, several of them are hovering with concern, and he can practically read the  _ see, this is what we’re talking about  _ in all of their expressions.

“Sling, please,” he says wearily, nodding to Colleen. She picks up the mess of cloth and straps and helps him get his arm situated, before he turns his attention to all of them. “This  _ isn’t  _ something I can back out of just because I was injured. I need everyone here to understand that.”

“But you need time to recover—” Coran tries.

“I don’t need to recover,” Shiro says. “I need this to be over with. Haggar did this to me. She’s planning on opening the door for something, because she’s trying to go somewhere, and she tried to use _me_ to do that. I _have_ to be a part of this to the end. I have earned that right by now. And I am not giving up halfway. I’ll be careful, but I am not backing down because she hurt me once.” No matter how terrifying the thought of facing her down again is. “So, where are we at with the mission?”

More exchanged glances. Shiro hates how often they’ve been doing that recently. He feels out of the loop and overprotected. But after a moment, Sam says, “He’s got a right to be a part of it, just like he said.”

Lance sighs. “I guess that’s fair. But there’s not much to really share.”

They outline what they’d discovered while he’d been captured—the circle being made throughout the entirety of Garrison City, and their scouting patterns when they’d tried to find Shiro. That matches against Sam’s and Matt’s account of the ritual that they’d shared with him while captured. 

There had also been more ritual murders since Shiro had vanished. “Two just a few days after you disappeared,” Pidge says, ticking them off on her fingers. “Two the day after we rescued you. And two the night before you woke up. That brings our body count to fourteen.” 

“The other rituals would have been completed by fourteen, in a given city,” Matt says. “But because you guys have all been interfering with preparing this city in the past, it’s not steeped in enough blood yet. We’ve got maybe three weeks, maximum, before her summoning ritual takes effect. If it hits twenty…” He swallows.

“Then we don’t let it get that far,” Shiro says, wincing against another angry spike of pain in his arm. “You said there was a central ritual we were taken to—have we figured out where that is?”

Allura shakes her head. “We’ve been trying to find it, but we aren’t certain where it could be. We thought we had a lead, but…”

“We caught the guy you and Lance and Keith saw when you found one of those murders,” Hunk explains. “Raht, his name was. Well, Griffin caught him, actually. We were able to get your location out of him. Actually, Nyma got your location out of him. We tried to question him for this other ritual, but…”

“He’s not talking?” Shiro asks, eyes narrowed. “I’m sure we could convince him. Get Nyma back—I can cover the price—or I can use some of the Covenant’s interrogation techniques.” He’s not proud of knowing those, but with the fate of the world at stake, he can and  _ will  _ use them. “Or—”

“We can’t do any of those things,” Lance says. “He’s dead.”

“What?”

“He’s dead,” Pidge repeats. “We tried to do just what you said. Nyma came back for more questioning. She had him wrapped around her finger and the guy started to answer, but he choked up. He had some kind of...of brain aneurysm, or something. Died almost immediately.”

Shiro pales. “Haggar.”

Allura nods grimly. “We weren’t sure what it was at first, but after we knew she was a johrlac...it seems fitting. She must have placed something in her servants’ minds to prevent them from talking. If they did…”

Shiro groans. “That explains why Sendak and Macidus barely said anything either. They must have known.” The fact that a johrlac could place a mental bomb like that in someone’s head so easily, though...it’s absolutely terrifying. 

_ Could she have done that to me?  _

But why bother? She’d already broken his mind by then. He’d been made a hollow puppet for her to command, to try and circumvent the laws of physics and magic. He hadn’t been able to do  _ anything  _ under his own power, much less talk. She’d thought he was broken beyond repair. There was no need.

There was no need, but it still makes him sick, to think someone with that degree of cold indifference had their vile mental fingers inside his mind. He shudders, and clutches at his arm again when it throbs angrily once more.

“So our only lead is dead, and we don’t know where the final ritual is going to take place,” Shiro summarizes. “What about the facility we were kept at?”

“Keith went back with a bunch of the Marmorites and Griffin’s werelions,” Lance supplies. “They searched the whole place and got some evidence and stuff, but no people. They cleared out after we broke you guys out.” 

“Do we at least know who or what she’s trying to summon?” Shiro asks, a little desperately. His arm  _ stabs  _ again, a burning lance of angry pain.

The Holts all shake their heads. “We were never sure to begin with,” Sam admits. “We were given instructions on a very specific dimension to summon from. All I can tell you for certain is it’s extremely far away on any dimensional scale, and it requires a great deal of power to even reach it and break the barrier on that side. That’s why the ritual is so vast and so complex.”

So basically, they have nothing. No leads, no idea where Haggar will strike next, no idea who or what she’s trying to summon. All they have is an endgame plan and the fate of the entire world sitting on their shoulders. No pressure, or anything.

As if in answer to his frustrations, his arm stabs at him with yet another bolt of firey pain. They’ve been getting worse since the discussion started, and he grits his teeth against it again, left hand digging into the couch arm in a furtive attempt to deal with the sensation. Whatever medication the doctor had used hadn’t lasted too much longer than whatever Allura used, after all.

“Shiro?”

He blinks around at them slowly, aware they’re all staring again.

“Perhaps you should rest,” Allura suggests, after a moment.

“I told you. I need to be a part of this—”

“And you will be,” Coran says. “We’ll keep you updated, and we value your input. That doesn’t mean you can  _ not  _ take care of yourself, either.” And at Shiro’s frustrated expression, he adds gently, “It hasn’t even been a full day since you woke, Shiro. We won’t try to keep you out of this, but we can’t let you hurt yourself either.”

He hates it, but grudgingly has to admit that’s fair. “Maybe I’ll lay down for a bit,” he concedes. Although with his arm aching like this, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to sleep. 

“Your doctor left some medications with us while you were cleaning up,” Allura says. “It’s something else that should help with the pain and make you drowsy enough to sleep for a bit. Would you like to try it?”

_ No,  _ he wouldn’t. He hates having to rely on medications for this. But yes, god help him yes, he needs it right now. “I’ll take it,” he agrees.

Which is how he finds himself in his personal guest room ten minutes later, downing a pill and a glass of water and wearily stretching out to sleep. One of his Aeslin mice is with him, on Allura’s orders, to keep watch over him if he gets sick again. Otherwise he’s left blissfully alone. 

Alone with his pain, and his weakness, and the awful memories chasing around inside his brain the moment he’s no longer distracted enough to ignore them.

Sleep comes slowly, even with the new drugs, creeping over him sluggishly. When it does, it hardly feels restful. He isn’t plunged straight into blissful darkness this time, and awful dreams come snaking out of the edges of his mind like shadows, pouncing the moment they can. 

Shiro is no stranger to nightmares. He’s visited often with terrifying visions when he sleeps. Some of them are old memories—the people he’s killed that probably didn’t deserve it, the things he’d done in the name of so-called justice. Some are warped and twisted extensions of his fears—drowning in rivers of blood spilt by his own hands, betraying his friends, being found and trapped by his former allies. They’re unpleasant, but familiar.

But these are new and terrifying dreams, and he has no way to deal with them yet. 

He tries to climb out of a dark pit forever and ever, and yet he never reaches the light. He slips and slides down the edges, screaming for help and crying warnings no one hears, until he’s drowned in darkness. 

He’s an empty vessel puppeted by a demon, watching inside his own head, unable to stop himself as he cuts down all of his friends. They beg and plead with him to spare them, to tell them what’s wrong. He wishes he could, but he’s a prisoner in his own mind, and the demon’s will threads through his limbs and moves them for him. He weeps inside as their blood runs over his fingers.

He watches helplessly, bound in place in an ocean of blood, as a shadow-coated woman opens a door in the sky and a demon slithers through, screaming and laughing joyously. It gorges itself on the living, on the souls of the dead, on the Earth itself. Every person, human or cryptid, looks at him accusingly before disappearing into its maw. It eats him last, but the pain of  _ failure  _ hurts more than even the pain of being consumed.

He’s in an iron cage in a dark room, the bars pressed around him so tight he has no room to move, and the pressure is unbearable. A double-barred cage beside him contains writhing violet flames, that beat frantically against the restraints. The flames are intense, burning him from their proximity, from their sparks and embers. He shoves frantically at the door to his own cage, and it opens. He squirms his way free, desperate to get away, relieved that he can _move_ again. And the flames beat harder against the bars of their own cage, and wail, frantic and terrified, _not mine! Not mine! Not mine!_

Shiro’s eyes snap open as an agonizing, burning sensation all up and down his right arm wakes him, flaring bright and intense. He gasps and curls his arm close to his chest, curls his whole body around it, and struggles to just  _ breathe.  _ Just breathe, against the awful pressure burning him alive deep in his bones, pressing and pressing and—

—trapped, in a too-small cage, struggling frantically to get out while it  _ crushes _ .

“High Priest?”

Shiro starts at the squeaky voice from the nightstand, and wearily manages to lift his head to look at his attending Aeslin mouse.

“High Priest, do you require aid? Shall I retrieve the Lion Goddess for you?” the mouse asks anxiously.

“What time is it?” he asks instead, ignoring the question.

“It is but three of your hours since you went to your hallowed rest, High Priest,” the mouse answers promptly. “Your sleep has been troubled, High Priest, full of words of ill omen. Shall I retrieve the Goddess?”

“No,” Shiro says, suddenly understanding. “No. I need to go to them. Now. All of them. Everyone.  _ Now.”  _

“Of course, High Priest,” the mouse says, a little uncertain. 

He finds them in the study, and staggers towards Sam immediately, clutching his right arm against his chest. The rest of them stand in alarm, calling out to him, asking what’s wrong. He ignores them, and speaks directly to Sam. “Take the binding runes off.”

Sam stares. “What? Shiro, are you okay? You don’t look good.”

“The containment runes,” Shiro says, insistent, tracing one on his bandaged arm. “They need to come off. All of them. The ones on my skin, too.”

“Won’t that hurt you?” Hunk asks, alarmed. 

“It’s hurting me  _ now,”  _ Shiro says, anxious to make them understand. “It’s  _ pressure.  _ It’s been trying to tell me the whole time, but I didn’t know how to understand, I still don’t really—”

_ “What  _ is?” Allura asks.

“The  _ magic,”  _ Shiro says, digging his fingers into his right wrist as another burning flare of pain passes through his arms. He grits his teeth against it, waits for it to pass, and tries to explain. “It’s not the cuts that hurt. It’s the magic  _ inside.  _ It’s...it’s building. It’s  _ pressure.  _ It needs  _ out,  _ and it can’t, and it’s burning me alive inside with nowhere to go.” 

_ Not mine, not mine, not mine,  _ the flames always said. Or didn’t  _ say,  _ exactly, it’s not  _ words,  _ it never was. It’s a different sense entirely, something Shiro never had before, and barely understands now. 

But this sorcerer’s fire that Haggar forced on him, he doesn’t know how to use it, and it doesn’t belong, and it doesn’t  _ want  _ to. He’s lived this long because of natural resistance, Haggar had said so. But they’re not a match. They’re killing  _ each other.  _

“But why would suppressing it hurt you less before, but now it hurts you  _ more?”  _ Pidge asks, bewildered.

“Sorcerers in training also struggle with their powers at first, even naturally,” Sam says thoughtfully. “They react to emotion and distress more than anything else. Shiro was severely injured and in pain when the magic was first given to him. It could have been reacting to that.”

“But since Shiro wasn’t born for it, and his mind wasn’t capable of handling it at the time, it just got out of control,” Matt finishes, considering. “Which hurt him more, which causes more distress, which makes it get out of control…”

“An infinite feedback loop,” Pidge says, eyes wide with realization. “That makes sense! Dad interrupted it, but now the pressure is just building instead.”

Shiro doesn’t know if that’s true or not. He doesn’t care. He just wants to relieve the pressure, get it out, get it  _ gone.  _

“Take them off,” he says, and he’s not sure if he’s ordering or begging. “All of them. Please.”

“We don’t know that it will leave,” Sam warns him. “If it could have fled you on its own, it would have when she first transplanted it into you. You could set the place on fire instead. The flames could go out of control.” 

“If they stay on, it will just kill me slowly,” Shiro says, gritting his teeth against another surge of pain. “It’s the reason my arm isn’t healing. It’s the reason it keeps hurting. The pressure is too much.” He’s not designed by birth to  _ handle  _ it. He’s not a magic user. He’s lucky he’s lived this long. 

“What if we take precautions?” Coran asks. “We’ve a safe room for emergencies. There’s not much that could burn in it, if fire does get out of control, and it has its own sprinkler system.”

“That’s brilliant!” Allura says, standing. “We can prepare it at once. Most of us can remain outside. I will stay with Shiro, in case something goes wrong and he must be healed.” 

“I’ll come as well,” Sam says. “I can remove the runes, and maybe study the reaction. It’s possible I could coach Shiro through anything that goes wrong.”

“You could get hurt,” Lance counters immediately. “If the reaction is really that bad, it’s not a good idea to be at ground zero, right?”

“Shiro would never hurt me—” Allura begins.

“No,” Shiro says. “He’s right. I don’t know if I can control this.” His arm spikes with pain again, and he clutches it to his chest, gasping. 

“You cannot be alone in there,” Allura argues. Sam nods grimly in agreement.

“I agree,” Shiro says. “I’ll let you come with me—if Hunk comes as well.” And at Hunk’s bewildered look, he adds, “If things get out of hand, and I can’t control whatever happens—knock me out.” He stares pointedly at Hunk’s eyes. 

“Are you sure?” Hunk asks nervously.

“Positive,” Shiro says. “It’s better than cracking me over the skull, and you can do it without getting close to me if there’s fire.”

Hunk twiddles his fingers nervously, but finally sighs and nods. “Okay. Fine. Just let me swap my contacts for glasses.”

Fifteen minutes later finds them all waiting just outside the door of the panic room. To call it a ‘room’ would be a bit of an understatement; like everything else in Allura’s penthouse, it’s big enough to house a small family in. But it’s barren, compared to the lavish decorations of the rest of the household. That means if things do go wrong, he can’t turn an entire building in Garrison City to ash. 

“Ready?” Shiro asks, through a pained grimace. The pain in his arm is getting steadily worse. He’s not sure if the magic knows what’s coming, somehow, or if the pressure buildup after more than a week is just naturally at the breaking point. All he knows is it’s excruciating, and he wants these wrappings gone  _ now.  _

“Ready,” Sam, Allura, and Hunk agree—the last rather nervously.

“Please be careful, miss,” Coran insists. “And the rest of you, too.”

“We will be,” Allura promises confidently.

They step inside the room, and Allura closes the door firmly, locking them all inside. It’s built wide enough to accommodate her large wingspan, which makes sense. There are no windows and no other doors besides the main one, the lighting is simple, and most of the room is stone. Perfect.

“Hurry,” Shiro says, holding out his aching, suffering hand to Allura and Sam.

They set to work immediately, unwrapping the rune-marked bandages from his arm as quickly as they can. It’s agonizing, but Shiro sets his jaw against the pain and lets them work. He wonders if the magic can tell what he’s doing. He doesn’t think it’s  _ alive,  _ exactly, but it’s more than just energy. It has some sense that can tell if it’s imprisoned. 

_ Soon,  _ he tries to think to it. He doesn’t know if that works.  _ Soon you’re free.  _

The wrappings finally come off, and underneath his mutilated arm looks even worse than it had this morning. The inflamed skin is red and raw, and the barely scabbed skin oozes beads of blood in a few places. Allura hisses at the sight of it, and immediately tries to offer some healing, but his arm is resistant like before. 

“The symbols,” Shiro says. He can feel the heat of it inside. It’s an inferno locked in the bones and blood of his arm, a volcano ready to explode, and he desperately needs it gone. 

Sam jumps to work, scrubbing at the sharpie symbols with an alcohol solution. It stings the cuts, but that’s barely anything compared to the burning agony in his arm, and he endures it. The symbols disappear from his flesh, one after another, until finally only the carved symbols remain. 

Everyone takes a step back. Hunk raises a hand nervously to his glasses. After a moment, Allura asks, “Anything? Did it help?”

Shiro holds up his arm. It aches, it  _ burns,  _ but it’s quiet. His arm  _ throbs  _ again, an angry spike of pain that runs down from his upper arm to his fingertips. And then his whole arm bursts into violet flames.

Shiro yelps, frantic, and immediately hurls himself to the ground, rolling to try and put out the fire. They remain, and the heat of them is intense, too hot against his face,  _ too hot— _

—but not, he realizes with shock,  _ hurting  _ him. Not like it should, not like how it looks. His skin should be blistering already, splitting to expose muscle. His blood should be boiling, his bones cracking and popping like logs in a firepit. The stench of cooking meat should flood his nose. With flames that intense, he should be  _ suffering.  _

But he isn’t. Not like that. His fingertips burn, like he’s touched a hot stove. He can smell singed hair and cloth. But no part of his skin covered by carved, bloodied runes truly burns. 

He watches, shocked, mesmerized by the dancing violet flames on his skin.

And then someone shouts, and the fire roars higher, towering over him, and suddenly they’re out of control. They leap to the ceiling, to the walls, and violet flames dance over the stone and burn where there’s nothing to burn. They spread wider, faster, rushing greedily, hungrily, desperate to spread and consume.

_ No! No!  _ Shiro grabs at them frantically with his burning fingers, but they dance away from him, spreading like wildfire. He doesn’t know how to  _ stop  _ it. They’re rapidly rushing for the others now, already creating a wall of flames, and smoke is making the room thick already. The sprinklers are activated, and water pours down in a torrent, drenching Shiro in seconds. But while the flames are dampened, they’re not  _ real  _ fire, and they don’t relent.

_ Enough!  _ He calls out with his mind, panicked.  _ Enough! Stop this! I’m ordering you to stop, right now!  _

But he doesn’t know the words. He doesn’t even know the language, or how to communicate with this magic. He doesn’t know if it even hears him, or if it cares to listen. It’s rushing out farther and farther and he can’t stop it and the water can’t stop it and—

“Shiro!” 

He whips his head towards his name. His eyes meet Hunk’s—unguarded by lenses. Willpower slams  _ directly  _ into his brain, and just like that the world goes dark, and he barely registers the impact as his body hits the ground—

—and it’s dark, and all around him there’s  _ fire.  _ Violet flames, like before, but these ones are different. They’re no longer in a cage, but they flit frantically around and around, slamming into the darkest shadows, pushed back, rushing them again, and again, and again. Shiro is reminded of a bird trapped in a house, desperately trying to figure out how to flee, slamming into wall after wall after wall and breaking its own bones in its own terrified panic. 

_ Calm down,  _ he tries to say,  _ I’m trying to help you— _

But the fire doesn’t answer, or maybe it doesn’t understand. It rushes and slams itself against the dark over and over, and every time it does Shiro can feel it  _ pull,  _ and he can hear the echoing mantra he’s become used to.  _ Not mine! Not mine! Not mine!  _

He wakes with a groan, to find all of them crouching around him on the floor. Hunk’s glasses are back on, but he keeps one hand on the temples nervously, ready to stun again if needed.

“Shiro?” Allura asks anxiously. “Are you alright?”

He groans again. Is he  _ alright?  _ Not really. He has a nasty headache from collapsing unexpectedly, and everything else is sore. But…

But for the first time since he found himself on that metal table, his arm isn’t  _ killing  _ him anymore. It still  _ hurts— _ his entire arm has been mutilated, so that’s only to be expected. But it doesn’t smolder and burn from the inside, building up with heat and pressure like a volcano ready to explode. 

He smiles weakly, struggling to sit up. Sam puts a hand under his other shoulder and helps steady him. “Try to heal it.”

Allura blinks in surprise, but does as bid, taking his arm gently in her hands. She concentrates, and this time it  _ works.  _ Shiro can feel that strange energy sinking into his skin, and he can feel it chasing away the infection surrounding the wounds.

“It worked!” Hunk says. “Well, sort of. All the cuts are still there.”

“But the infection isn’t, which is certainly a start,” Allura says. “Though there is still... _ resistance  _ over the wounds. I think they could be closed, but I do not think I can get rid of them.”

Shiro closes his eyes, and tries to concentrate. He understands what she means, if he focuses very hard on his arm. The agonizing inferno and pressure in his whole arm is gone, but the runes still hold a deep, impossible heat. 

“The magic is still there,” Shiro whispers, exhausted. 

“I was afraid of this,” Sam says. “It’s the same reason it couldn’t flee the moment Haggar put it in your arm. It’s bound to you with those runes, and you to it.”

Hunk’s expression turns panicked. “So this could happen  _ again?”  _ he asks, looking around.

For the first time since waking, Shiro looks around as well. He’s stunned. The clean, neat panic room is a scorched mess. The stone is blackened in some places, beginning to melt in others. Everything is soaked from the sprinklers, and one of the pipes is broken and dripping water. It all radiates outward from Shiro himself, and had gotten shockingly far before the damage finally halts, six feet from the door. 

“What  _ happened?”  _ he asks, disbelieving. 

“It still burned a little, even after I knocked you out,” Hunk says, wringing his hands nervously. “You collapsed, but you were still on fire. Or, your arm was. The fire started to get weaker when you went down, but it took a while for it to die out completely.” 

“It was...surprisingly aggressive,” Allura says, and she too looks a bit troubled. “Almost alive.”

But Shiro thinks back to his strange vision, and the panicked flames desperately trying to escape, bound to him and unable to. “No,” Shiro says. “Not aggressive. Just...confused. And I don’t think it will be  _ that  _ bad again by itself. I think that was just...buildup.” 

Buildup, and panic, from something imprisoned for over a week in a place it didn’t belong and couldn’t escape. Shiro did the same, locked in his own head. He...understands that frantic kind of panic. 

But the pressure has been released, and they won’t be doing that again. If Shiro is well and truly stuck with this magic, then he has two choices. He can let it burn him alive from the inside out. Or…

“Sam,” he says, after a deep, steadying breath. “I need your expertise. I need you to teach me how to be a sorcerer.”


	32. Homo sapiens: Part Eight

“Hey, it’s okay. No one knows everything until they learn about it. That’s the whole point of learning things, isn’t it? We go out, we learn, we know more. It’s cool.”   
—Alex Price,  _ Pocket Apocalypse  _

**_The Altea Penthouse, getting a crash course in sorcery_ **

Takashi Shirogane has been considered for most of his life to be a fast learner. 

He picked up on most of his Covenant training easily. He’s adaptive, strong and agile, learning most forms of combat quickly. He’s a good shot with a number of firearms, and his mother had always praised his skill with throwing knives. He’d trained to expertise in several kinds of swords. In a kinder life, he could have been a medalist in martial arts. 

He was no stranger to subtle forms of training either. Survival skills. Espionage and stealth. Forgery. Meditation. Spacial awareness. If it was useful for the Covenant’s creed, he was a Shirogane, and he excelled at it.

He’s used to picking things up quickly. But magic is nothing like  _ anything  _ he’s ever learned. It’s frustrating and exhausting and it doesn’t come easily, and he rapidly grows to  _ detest  _ his magic lessons. 

“Relax,” Sam tells him. “Breathe, and focus.”

“I have been,” Shiro mutters. “It doesn’t do me any good.”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Sam informs him. “I’m no sorcerer myself. All I have to go on are accounts I’ve researched over the years. But even natural-born sorcerers struggle with control when they first come into their powers. It can take years for them to maintain perfect control.”

“We don’t have that kind of time!”

“No, but I want to be clear about what you’re trying to accomplish, so you understand you won’t be done in a day, either,” Sam insists. “The most concise recounting I’ve ever read about sorcerers compared their fledgling magic to a newborn baby’s screams. Infants have no concept of moderation. They wail at the top of their tiny lungs because they need attention, but they don’t understand they’re hurting their little throats.” He laughs fondly. “As a father of two, I can confirm that’s accurate.” 

Shiro nods wearily from his position, cross-legged on a comfortable pillow in the middle of the panic room. They’d determined training would be best held here, which still reduced his chances of accidentally setting the whole building on fire. “Pidge explained something similar on our last mission.”

Sam smiles. “She was always a quick study. My point is that an infant needs to learn its limits, and learn restraint, with its voice. Eventually it learns to communicate with speech or song, in ways that are more effective and less painful. Magic is, by all accounts, the same way.” 

“I understand that,” Shiro says. “But it’s different trying to  _ do  _ it.”

“And that’s our second difficulty,” Sam says. “Because you’re not a natural-born sorcerer, and this isn’t  _ your  _ magic. To use the earlier comparison, you’re an infant who’s been mute his whole short life, and suddenly you have a voice. You don’t know how to use it to even scream yet. So first, we need to teach you how to find that instinct, and then we can learn how to control it.”

“That sounds dangerous, when screaming means setting things on fire,” Shiro says. 

But he does get it. Since he woke up from his coma, he has been starting to recognize a new sense, at the edge of his other senses. He doesn’t really know how to explain it. The best he can think of is hearing the cadence of a new language he doesn’t know, in a pitch that had previously been too high for him to recognize his whole life.

But he’s more aware of...of  _ energy,  _ he supposes, than he ever had been before. He can feel it innately when Allura does a healing session on him. He can feel the heat in his own arm, in his bones, burning but not painful anymore now that the pressure has been bled out. 

He doesn’t really know how to process or use that sense yet, though. Sam had equated it to being mute and having a voice. Shiro thinks it’s more like being blind, and suddenly having sight, and being told to name things by colors he doesn’t know. He’s aware of a whole new complex level of the world but he doesn’t know how to understand it, or communicate with it. He was never made to. And that’s why this is so  _ hard.  _

“Just breathe,” Sam repeats. “And focus. Try to understand that new part of you.”

He tries. Sam runs him through every beginner exercise he’s ever researched. Concentration exercises, memorization techniques, riddles, focused circles, meditation. Anything to build his mind out and teach him how to absorb that new sense. Shiro puts one hundred and ten percent of himself into trying, but he doesn’t make much headway.

Not when trying to do magic  _ deliberately,  _ anyway. He certainly sets a lot of things on fire  _ accidentally.  _ Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say the magic releases itself willfully, when he’s not paying attention, usually to catastrophic results. 

He’ll wake in the night from an awful dream to find his sheets on fire, forcing him to pat them out in a real life panic while still recovering from the one in his head. Hunk lights the stove to cook something, and his own hand bursts into violet flame in a strange yearning for  _ kinship. _ He gets frustrated with their latest reports from the Marmoran or Sanctuary scouts, and the page will go up in smoke in his hands. 

He doesn’t know exactly what aggravates the magic into acting, and it makes him paranoid. He’s set off the smoke alarms multiple times by now, day and night, and charred several pieces of Allura’s furniture. This, Sam tells him, is not unlike a real sorcerer, and a sign of progress that he’s starting to absorb this new sense. 

But  _ real  _ sorcerers can communicate with their own magic, because it’s a part of themselves. Shiro can’t figure out that part, and he can’t figure out how to talk to the willful energy embedded in his scarred skin, and it makes it impossible to make any real headway.

But he does learn... _ some  _ things, after at least a week of frustrating practice and setting many, many things on fire.

The magic, he realizes slowly, has moods. Not like something alive, or sentient. Fire isn’t intelligent in and of itself. But it understands it isn’t home. It understands it doesn’t belong with Shiro. It understands that it wants  _ freedom,  _ to be itself and to burn and return to who it was, and it understands it’s trapped. 

And because of that, it’s volatile. Sometimes it can be withdrawn, almost sullen, and utterly unresponsive. Sometimes it’s neutral, and can react to outside stimuli—like natural flames, and wanting to join them—but it doesn’t inherently burn on its own. And sometimes it’s flighty, or rebellious, or unpredictable, and throws a temper tantrum like a toddler. That’s when it’s at its most dangerous, settling things alight even when Shiro tried hard to  _ not.  _

But over time, with enough practice with Sam, he starts to figure out how to recognize those moods. At least a little. He can feel them come and go in the way the heat rises and falls in his arm, and he at least gets a better understanding of when he needs to pay more attention, and when it’s okay to relax. 

Once he does that, he notices the magic really does _ ,  _ at least to some degree, react to his  _ own _ mood. Sam and Matt had said it could react to the emotions of the sorcerer, as well as distress. The magic might not even like him, but it certainly can tell when he’s stressed, or maybe it’s just easier for it to squirm its way free of his own volition when his mental defenses are low. If he gets frustrated with his studies, or more negative news from the mission, his fingers start to smolder. Every time he has a nightmare, he wakes to charred sheets and pillowcases, to the point he keeps water and sand on hand in his guest room now just to deal with it. 

And nightmares were already difficult enough,  _ before  _ the added potential of burning down the room around him by accident.

It’s frustrating. It’s difficult. It’s intense. He still hasn’t figured out how to actively use the fire on his  _ own,  _ to convince that power to come to his beck and call. He still hasn’t figured out how to communicate with it, or ask it for help, or anything of that sort. It’s still an unwilling, frantic prisoner that he’s bound to, whether either of them likes it or not. 

But at least, after a week, he learns to recognize the telltale sign of his hand growing hot, and the inevitable fire that’s going to come. It’s a terrible start, but Sam calls it immense progress, for someone who was never born with any sense for magic at all.

He was born blind, but he’s starting to understand at least the  _ concept  _ of color and how to recognize it. 

He does, at least, manage to progress in other ways. A week of practicing to try and control his magic might not have done him much good, but a week of getting back into his usual training routine does him wonders. He starts slow under the doctor’s and Allura’s orders, and the watchful eyes of the mice, who will remember and report  _ everything  _ to their goddess. And he does still have to be careful with his right arm, which doesn’t have that enormous burning  _ pressure  _ anymore but does still ache from being quite literally carved up. 

He’s starting to wonder, after a week, if that ache, that weakness, will ever really go away. His right arm had always been the weaker of the pair ever since he broke it, six years ago, but now the difference is extreme.

Despite that, he is at least able to get back into his standard training regimen. He runs through martial arts katas, target practice with throwing knives, and strength building exercises in the personal gym in the Altean penthouse. Even the occasional spar with Keith, despite the latter’s clear reluctance initially when Shiro is still building himself back up. It lets him build up his strength and stamina again after being unconscious for over a week. More importantly, it feels normal, even soothing, like he has control of at least  _ one  _ part of his life right now even if everything else is falling apart. 

He isn’t the only one searching for some semblance of normalcy. Just two days after they strip the containment runes from his arm, and Shiro is finally allowed back to his physical training  _ without  _ constant supervision, Lance slinks into the gym. 

There’s a guilty set to his shoulders that Shiro remembers seeing the first night he woke, and again whenever Lance thinks he isn’t looking. Shiro half expects him to shift forms and tuck his tail between his legs as he nervously sidles over and says, “Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

Shiro doesn’t generally like to stop mid-kata, but Lance looks so miserable he makes an exception to the rule. “Sure,” he says. “What’s up?”

Lance carefully doesn’t meet his eyes as he stares over at one of the pieces of equipment. “I, um. I wanted to say I’m sorry. Really,  _ really  _ sorry.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For  _ what?”  _ Lance gives him an incredulous look. “For you getting captured! I was supposed to be your buddy when we went to the flea market. You made us do a buddy system specifically to keep people from getting captured or killed. And I wasn’t paying attention because I was too busy focusing on my stupid stomach, and then you disappeared, and then…” 

He swallows, and his eyes flick to Shiro’s right arm, to his white hair, before carefully flicking away again. The arm is still bandaged to help with the deep rune injuries, if not marked with counter sigils anymore on the outside, but everyone knows what’s underneath by now. And there’s no way at all to hide his hair. 

For a moment, revulsion and frustration and shame flash through his mind at the thought of those scars on his skin, the change in his hair, the way he’s been  _ marked  _ by her for the rest of his life. Distorted memories of pain and confusion and a demon’s control threading through his mind and body bubble just below the surface, ready to ambush him.

The magic catches his distress, and his fingers start to grow hot.  _ No, no,  _ he cautions himself, taking a deep breath like Sam had taught him.  _ That’s over. Calm down.  _ The feelings simmer down, and his fingers grow cooler again.

It’s all a matter of seconds. Not enough for Lance to catch, unless he can smell the warmth building and fading in Shiro’s fingertips. Lance’s shoulders still hang guiltily, and he looks anywhere but in Shiro’s direction, so Shiro doubts he’d even noticed.

“Is that what’s been upsetting you for the past few days?” Shiro asks gently. “That’s not your fault at all, Lance.”

“But it is!” Lance says. “That was my  _ one job!  _ And I blew it! And you got hurt really bad, and—”

“—and if you had come with me, you’d have been hurt too, Lance,” Shiro interrupts. “You have...no real idea what Haggar is capable of. Her powers are too strong. If you’d been with me, she would have locked up your movement as well. You probably would have been the next sacrifice.” 

Lance doesn’t look appeased at all by that. 

“Besides,” Shiro says. “It’s not your fault we got split up. I saw Raht. I called to you, but I’d wandered too far away by then. I don’t think you heard me. I should have gone back to get your attention, but I was afraid I’d lose him, so I chased him. I should have known better.  _ I’m  _ the one who arranged the buddy system, after all.” 

Lance looks startled. “I didn’t hear you at all,” he says. “I was negotiating a stupid snack with the vendor. I shouldn’t have been so obsessed with eating, though, we had plenty of blood at home…”

Shiro shakes his head. “I didn’t object to you getting a snack. It’s not a crime to be hungry. I’m just as much at fault for my own capture.” He gives Lance a weak smile. “So I don’t want you to beat yourself up over this anymore, okay?”

Lance hesitates, but then nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Great. Now is anybody  _ else  _ going to come and apologize to me for my situation?” Shiro asks, trying to force some levity into his tone. “First Keith, then you...I might as well go hunt down anyone else who tries to take the blame for this.”

“Think it’s just us,” Lance says, sheepish and hesitant. “You had us all really scared when you disappeared, though. Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’ll do my best not to,” Shiro promises.  _ Assuming we all live through the impending end of the world in a few weeks,  _ he doesn’t add. 

No one else tracks Shiro down to apologize for some mistaken responsibility for his disappearance or his injuries. But every single one of the Holts track him down to thank him for his part in reuniting them. 

“I really didn’t do anything,” Shiro insists, when Colleen pulls him aside so the entire Holt family can thank him. “I mean, yeah, I  _ tried  _ to break Matt and Sam out of prison, but I failed. Twice. And I wasn’t even conscious when you were all reunited.”

“Well, then we’re even now for making something happen without doing anything,” Matt says. “If you can thank me for changing your whole outlook on cryptids just by being in the right place at the right time, then it’s only fair.”

Pidge nods enthusiastically. “And if I  _ hadn’t  _ been here working with you on this case, we  _ never  _ would have found my dad and brother,” she says. “I knew sticking around you would help us find them!”

“Even bringing us the information that my wife and daughter were still alive and safe was enough to give us hope,” Sam adds. “Six years of imprisonment...it wears on the mind. Especially in those conditions, helping with that awful ritual. But you gave us the strength to keep going, and here we are now.”

“Six months ago I hadn’t seen  _ any  _ of my family in quite some time,” Colleen says, giving Pidge an exasperated look, and Matt and Sam fond ones, before turning back to Shiro. “Now I have all of them, and I have you to thank for that, whether or not you believe it. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. So  _ thank  _ you.”

And she steps forward and draws him into another one of those hugs, the ones that were  _ warm  _ but not  _ burning.  _ As if it’s a signal, the other three swarm him as well, piling their own warm hugs into the mix. 

And it should be setting his instincts haywire, being in the firm grips of  _ three  _ bogeymen. But Shiro honestly can’t think of a safer place to be at that moment.

“By the way,” Pidge adds conversationally, still burrowed neatly into the group hug, “Mom gave Shiro a mom hug, which means he’s basically adopted, so he’s family now.”

“Oh yeah?” Matt says brightly. One long-limbed arm reaches up to pat Shiro’s shoulder with multi-jointed fingers. “Who knew six years ago we’d be honorary brothers? Once all this craziness is over we’ll need to hang out.”

“Maybe you can join our  _ Monsters and Mana  _ game!” Pidge offers brightly. “We kind of had to put it on hold for this whole case. But I’m sure Coran would let you add a character. Maybe you can keep Shiro’s character alive.”

“That would be a miracle,” Shiro mutters.

“That does sound really fun,” Matt says. “I’ve missed  _ Monsters and Mana.  _ My old group has probably fallen apart by now.” He sighs wistfully. 

“You can kick Shiro’s ass real easy in just about any video game, too,” Pidge volunteers solemnly. 

“Hey!” Shiro elbows her gently in the shoulder.

“Noted,” Matt says, with a sharp-toothed bogeyman grin. 

“Play nice,” Sam says neutrally, as he and Colleen finally step back from the group hug.

Shiro gives him a bewildered look as Matt and Pidge detach more slowly. “You’re going along with this?”

“Colleen is an excellent judge of character,” Sam says, as Colleen chuckles and links an arm with his. “If she decides you’re family, then you’re family. After the effort you went through for Pidge and Matt, I don’t see why not.”

Pidge grins at Shiro. “I  _ told  _ you my dad would adopt you too. Congratulations, you’re an honorary bogeyman.”

And just like before, Shiro thinks there are far worse things he could be.

But most important of all, as one week passes and moves into another, is the  _ mission.  _ Because Haggar is still out there, and still preparing to kill, and they don’t have much time left to stop her. Shiro can work on getting better. He can try to learn how to control his newfound magic. But what he can’t do—what  _ none  _ of them can do—is lose sight of the final goal now.

Ideally, their best bet would be to go on the offensive. Attacking Haggar and her Galra cult before the ritual is complete would allow them to stop it. But attacking is difficult when they don’t know where she  _ is,  _ and no amount of searching reveals where the center ritual could be. 

“It would need to be somewhere in the middle of all the other ritual kills,” Pidge says, during another mission briefing at dusk in Allura’s study. She circles a wide area in the center of Garrison with a green pen, adding glumly, “But that’s still way too much ground to cover. We can’t search  _ all  _ of these buildings in time.”

“That doesn’t include the underground, either,” Hunk adds. “That could go super deep, and she could be anywhere in there.”

“And she’s probably using charms to hide the place too, like the last one,” Lance says glumly. “We could be walking right past it every day and never know.” 

“We wear the last memory charms we got from Rolo and Nyma whenever we go out scouting, though,” Keith says. “Wouldn’t that protect us from other charms?”

“Not if she’s using a different kind of memory charm to turn people away,” Shiro says. “Or more than one charm. Or some other kind of magic. We know she’s not above experimentation.” 

He can’t quite keep the bitterness from his words at the end, and his own wrongfully acquired magic thrums in response to his emotions, making the tips of his fingers grow warm. He forces it down with difficulty.

“We can’t be of much help either,” Sam admits with a sigh. “We were blindfolded when we were brought there, and they made us go up and down several flights of stairs to confuse us.”

“Once we’re inside wherever it is, we could recognize it,” Matt says. “And lead the way to the ritual chamber. Getting there, though…” He shrugs helplessly.

“All we can do is keep searching, and hope we find the location, then,” Allura says with a sigh. “I will charge the Aeslin mice to look for discrepancies like the last one, when the search information is reported to them. Perhaps we can find another hole, and thus, our solution.”

“HAIL!” the Witness Aeslin mice cheer, and the one dyed blue bows deeply and says, “It would be our greatest honor, Lion Goddess, to assist with so important a duty!”

So that’s what they do, to the best of their ability. A small group of scouts—Marmora, Sanctuary werelions, and any other city volunteers they can find—still keep searching the outer circle of the ritual for Galra cultist activity. There are still several places the Holts predict will be the next location of the murders, and they intend to stop them if they can, and find them before they disappear if they can’t. But the larger force searches through the center of the city day and night, hunting for any sign of Haggar, her followers, or a bloody ritual at the cusp of completion.

They don’t find it.

Offensive would be best—but since that’s proving difficult, Shiro starts organizing defensive measures as well. First and foremost, absolutely required, are anti-telepathy charms. Even if they find the final ritual circle, it will mean nothing if they go up against Haggar unprepared. She reached into Shiro’s mind so easily last time, locking him up in his own head and taking away his ability to fight back, and she claimed he’d been  _ resistant.  _

He doesn’t know what grants him that resistance, but he sincerely doubts the rest of their unofficial army have whatever that is. It would be so easy for her to reach into their minds and turn ally against ally. The thought of the Marmora Society vampires, or Griffin’s werelion army, turning on him and his friends against their will is a nightmare. And if Keith, Lance, Pidge or Hunk were to turn on him—or god forbid, he on  _ them— _

— _ cutting them down silently, unrepentant, slicing them open while they cry out and beg him to stop, to tell them what’s wrong, and he can’t, trapped inside his own head, and he weeps— _

—it would be catastrophic. 

So, anti-telepathy charms. Any sorcerer worth their magic would be able to create them  _ easily.  _ Shiro had tried—it was one of the first things he’d asked Sam to try and teach him. But Sam didn’t have much information on how to do it, and what he did have, Shiro just couldn’t  _ do.  _ He’d tried to reach out to the magic embedded in those awful runes in his arm, but he didn’t understand it, and it didn’t understand him, and it wouldn’t do what he wanted. 

That was disappointing, but there were other ways. Rolo and Nyma had access to charms made by other magic users, and were willing to part with them for the cause—and an exorbitant fee. Allura had agreed to cover the cost, and Rolo had even graciously (for him) offered to delay payment, on account of the world potentially ending. 

“Can’t do business if the world doesn’t exist,” he’d said glibly. “If these help you make it keep existing, I’m glad to offer an extension on your bill.”

Rolo could have sense, when it was necessary. Even so, Shiro feels bad about Allura having to pay such a ridiculous amount. He offers to split the costs with her, but she only laughs at him. 

“We all have our ways of contributing,” she says. “You are more capable in combat than I. And I am able to ensure everyone is equipped and ready.”

The charms are something of a relief, at least. Shiro is given the first one, and he always wears it. Even in the shower, and even when sleeping. It might be paranoid, but he’s had Haggar in his head too often, had her flay back his mind and slither into his limbs. That sheer vulnerability, that exposure, had terrified him. He will  _ never  _ let her do that to him again. And so that little silver chain, and the tiny vial of unicorn water and herbs and a single copper disc empowered with magic, is a great comfort. 

He doesn’t look forward to facing down Haggar again. But he’ll be  _ ready  _ for her next time, when he does. 

Of second most importance is finding ways to counter the ritual, if they can’t outright stop it. They still don’t know  _ what,  _ exactly, Haggar is trying to summon, but at this point Shiro hardly cares. If they can weaken the ritual, it will never come through at all, and that’s all that matters. He puts the Holts on the task immediately, and they take to it with gusto.

“We might be able to purify some of the spaces, like I talked about before,” Pidge says. “With the right supplies. Blessed water, incense, salts, the right sorts of counter rituals...it might make those things weaker.”

“If we could try it at the next killings, that would be ideal,” Matt says. “Assuming we can’t stop them, which would be even better. If the magic doesn’t have a chance to take root, that would be in our favor.”

“I wonder if we can get some of the older sites purified as well,” Sam muses thoughtfully. “If we weaken the other rituals in other cities...it might be enough to weaken the final ritual as a whole.”

“I do have some cryptid community contacts in other cities,” Allura says. “If you can give me instructions for how to deal with these vile ritual spaces, and places they should address, I can speak to them. Perhaps we can make a country-wide effort to prevent this before it is too late.”

They don’t know how much it will delay Haggar’s ritual, or even if it will. But they try anyway, because it’s all they can really do. They do everything they can to prepare, and to defend. They make a tiny bit of progress.

It still doesn’t stop the next murders, barely a week after Shiro wakes. 

Shiro hasn’t helped much with the active searching in the city, for that first week after his recovery, mostly because his lack of control with his magic could make things worse than they already are. He’d grudgingly agreed, when the whole team argued for him to stay behind. But he insists on going to the next murder site, and refuses to hear any argument to the contrary.

“We need to do whatever we can to find her,” Shiro insists. “I don’t have much control over this magic, but it’s a new resource regardless. I might notice things I didn’t before.”

The site of the fifteenth and sixteenth murders is the Drazan Stadium, a popular attraction for sports fans and a difficult place to keep tabs on, due to its size. It is, as expected, right in one of the predicted areas the Holts had suggested might be ritual sites. The Marmora agent who found it had been too late to stop the murders, but had at least found the bodies in time, and immediately called it in.

The scene is as grizzly as the others—two bodies, one male and one female, laid out opposite each other with their hands outstretched to grip and pierced through with a strange white spike. Like before, they’re arranged in a circle of blood, their bodies carved with runes, and more runes are painted on the shiny gym floor. 

But Shiro is unprepared for the sheer  _ wrongness  _ that emanates from the ritual site, this time.

He can feel it outside the room, and the moment they enter the wide arena the feeling of  _ wrongness  _ hits harder than the stench of blood. He staggers to a halt, pressing his left hand over his face in an effort to deflect the feeling, but the vileness doesn’t fade.

Keith frowns, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Shiro? You okay?”

No. No he’s  _ not  _ okay. Had the others been like this? This...this  _ malevolence?  _ Had he never noticed before? How could he  _ not  _ have? It permeates the air around them like a bad smell, like an off-tune song. 

_ Wrong!  _ He can not-exactly-feel the violet flames shriek, and his fingers grow hot.  _ Wrong! Vile, wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Not mine! Wrong! _

“Shiro?” Keith asks, circling around to stand in front of him. “Talk to me. Your heart rate’s increasing.”

“Is he okay?” Lance asks. “Is the blood getting to him?”

“It never did before…” Hunk says doubtfully. “Although I  _ totally  _ get it. If blood’s not a cooking ingredient, it’s gross.”

“No,” Shiro says, struggling to acclimate to the strange feeling  _ and  _ fight down his rapidly heating fingers. “No, it’s not that. It’s...can’t you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Lance asks, looking around.

“The...the  _ wrongness,”  _ Shiro says helplessly, not having any other words to explain it. “It’s everywhere.  _ Everywhere.  _ How did we not notice?”

Keith frowns. Beside him, Hunk looks uneasy, twiddling his fingers together. “This place gives me the heebie jeebies, not gonna lie. But it did every other time. I mean, Haggar murdered a bunch of people, that’s kind of messed up. But it’s just, y’know. The usual creepiness with your job.”

Shiro shakes his head. “No. This isn’t that, it’s...there’s something  _ here.”  _

Keith gives him an uncertain look. “Maybe it’s because the ritual is advancing? Matt and Sam said it was supposed to be done already…”

But Shiro shakes his head again. He has a gut feeling this malevolence, this raw  _ evilness,  _ has always been there for every other murder. The flames in his hand are reacting violently. And unlike the blood scent, which he’s already acclimated to just by forcing himself to breathe through his nose, it’s like his mind and body just  _ won’t  _ adjust to the presence of that wrongness. 

With a bit of a shock, he realizes it’s a sense his cryptid friends simply don’t _have_. The thought is bewildering. Since he’s met all of them, he’s gotten used to being the Average Joe of the team, with weak human senses and reflexes and absolutely no abilities outside of anything he could train himself to learn. It’s never really bothered him that the others have incredibly advanced sight, hearing, smell, preternatural speed or strength, or a host of strange abilities and personal defenses that he could never in a million years replicate. But never in his life had he ever thought he would have access to a sense they couldn’t. 

_ Not that I have much more access to it than they do,  _ he thinks bitterly. He knows something is wrong here, but he still doesn’t know what he can do about it.

But Sam says the best way to find out is practice and experimentation. So he takes a deep breath, and forces himself to push onward.

_ Wrong! Wrong! Vile! Wrong! Not mine, won’t, won’t, won’t! Not mine! Not mine! NOT MINE! _

Barely six steps forward, Shiro’s arm bursts into flames.

They aren’t the little tongues of fire his ill-gotten magic has produced so far, in a moment of distress. His whole arm  _ roars  _ to life in a towering three-foot column of violet flame, and the heat of it so close to his face is intense. He staggers, and smells singed cloth and hair, and fights the urge to grab his right wrist with his left hand. All it will do is hurt.

_ “Shiro!”  _ his friends yelp, panicked. Keith circles anxiously, looking around frantically for some sort of solution.

“Stay back!” Shiro warns through grit teeth. “It won’t burn me. It  _ will  _ hurt you.” That much, at least, he’s learned. The flames will burn his clothes and hair, and his skin if he touches it with anything uncarved by runes, and the heat of them is intense. But they can’t kill him this way.

They stay back, but grudgingly. He turns his battle inward, to the flames shrieking in his mind and in his arm.  _ Calm down,  _ he begs.  _ Please. It’s okay. We’re trying to stop that wrongness.  _

_ No!  _ The flames scream like a furious but all too deadly toddler, not listening, maybe not even understanding.  _ No! No! Not mine! Won’t! Won’t! Wrong, wrong, wrong! Not mine, not MINE!  _

There’s something  _ familiar  _ to all this. The intense heat, the flames, the violent rejection, the  _ wrongness.  _ Shiro swears he’s been here before, but the feel of it is hazy. And there’s something else, something he doesn’t  _ quite  _ understand, buried beneath the panicked flaring of the flames. Something that feels resentful, angry, or lost. Maybe all three.

Calming the flames doesn’t work. He tries to calm himself, instead. It isn’t easy; the presence of that malevolent force is frightening, and it’s hard to relax with that sense all around him. But he tries. He takes deep breaths, closes his eyes, and uses the same training he’d been taught for maintaining focus against larger, stronger, deadlier cryptids, ignoring the way his instincts gibber in fear. 

His mind stills. His breaths slow. And the flames diminish by a fraction, almost hesitantly.

_ Won’t?  _ The flames whisper, and this time it is undeniably a question.  _ Won’t? Won’t?  _

And Shiro opens his eyes in shock, because for the first time, the flames are trying to  _ talk  _ to him. 

Not with words. Shiro sort of understands the  _ intent  _ of the language, but even magic fire is still fire, and it doesn’t know spoken word. But there’s a sort of...of  _ feel  _ to it, the same way he feels that malevolence, that gives him an impression of intent. 

It had almost understood him. Not directly—it was like the start of learning a new language, when the words were all too fast and the syntax didn’t make sense, but you could recognize enough of the cadence to at least know what the language  _ was.  _ It understood how he  _ felt,  _ to some degree. 

Which meant maybe he could talk to it that way.

He tries. He concentrates on his fear of that malevolent presence, and his own desire to not be near it. He focuses on his anger about the pain that malevolence has caused, and his desire to stop it, not help it. He shows his frustration and his desperation and his need to do the right thing in all of this, before it’s too late.

The flames flicker. Like Shiro, they seem to be struggling to understand him, for once. Shiro can distantly feel that they don’t like that dark energy. They don’t belong to him, they don’t trust him, and they want nothing to do with him. 

But they must believe him, because after a long moment, the flames almost grudgingly shrink, licking at the edges of his charred jacket sleeve, before slipping past the bandages into the deep runes in his arm. His fingers grow cool, and after a moment, the magic stills.

Shiro breathes a sigh of relief.

“You okay?” Keith asks, as his friends circle closer to him with alarmed expressions on their faces.

“Yes,” he says. “I don’t think I can get closer for now, though.” The magic might understand he’s also afraid of that ritual, but he doesn’t want to shatter that fragile understanding so soon after he worked for it. 

“Is it the weird feelings?” Hunk asks.

“Yes,” Shiro says. “I don’t know how to explain it. I think...I think I’m sensing the magic of the ritual. It’s...it’s pretty awful. The fire doesn’t like it much.”

Keith gives him a concerned look. “Kolivan’s team has all the notes Sam and Matt gave them on trying to purify this thing, and for planning to try and ambush Haggar,” he says after a moment, gesturing back to the ritual. “If you need to go back to the penthouse…”

“No,” Shiro says. “Not yet. I have something else to work on.” 

And he does. He takes one of the farthest seats in the arena from the murders that he can, so that that miasma of pure evil is a little  _ less  _ invasive. Just to keep the magic from protesting. But then he closes his eyes, and he concentrates on it.

The flames don’t like this. They stir again, and he can smell burning plastic from the armrest as his arm heats up and starts to smolder.  _ Won’t!  _ The fire insists.  _ Won’t, won’t! Vile! Wrong! Not mine! Not mine!  _

Shiro tries to convey with thought that he isn’t going to use the magic, that he just wants to see if he can figure out where it’s going, how strong it is, how to find Haggar with it. But those thoughts are too complex for their rudimentary, newfound communication. In the end, he struggles to convey his hate for the blood magic, his understanding of its wrongness, and his desire to make it go away. He’s not sure it works, but his hand stops melting the armrest, and the sorcerer’s magic reluctantly quiets.

He discovers if he  _ focuses  _ on that vile magic—really concentrates, with every bit of his energy—he can almost feel how it moves. It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably to do so, and his skin crawls in a way that warns him of  _ danger  _ and  _ wrongness,  _ but it works. In the same way he can sense when Allura’s magic seeps into his arm to chase off infection, he can sense what this magic does too. 

The harder he focuses, the more he can tell it isn’t just an ominous, malevolent  _ presence— _ there’s an organization to it, places where that magic congregates. The blood runes, the bodies, everywhere in the circle, yes. But it goes farther too, beyond this one ritual, trickling in a steadily growing torrent towards...towards  _ elsewhere.  _

_ The center ritual.  _ Could he follow that trail back to where it was?

But it proves impossible. The moment he pushes too hard, his stomach roils, and he focuses on keeping the contents of his stomach inside of him instead. His concentration breaks, and he realizes he’s sweating and breathing hard from the effort. The magic in his arm seems almost sullen, and writhes inside of the runes. 

He’s too new at this. He’s only just discovered at this very moment how to even vaguely communicate with his ill-gained magic, or how to harness that new sense and use it actively. It takes too much out of him to try it.

But if he could practice...if he could get stronger at it, figure out how to use it to his advantage instead of flailing like a helpless, screaming newborn…

Maybe he could find Haggar. 

“Not maybe,” he whispers to himself. “I’m  _ going  _ to find you. One way or another.” 

All he has to do is train. And training, at least, is one thing he knows how to do  _ very  _ well.

* * *

“We can create a counter ritual,” Pidge says excitedly.

It’s the morning after the latest ritual murders, and the Holts had been up all night researching the latest runes. All of them are exhausted, and Colleen doesn’t look terribly thrilled at Pidge still being involved with even studying the aftermath of violent, bloody rituals. But as Sam had grimly pointed out, they needed all the brainpower they could get on this one, and so Pidge was still on the research team, grudgingly permitted by her mother.

It seemed the Holt Think Tank had finally paid off. “You can?” Shiro asks, impressed.

“We can,” Matt confirms with a tired grin. “We finally cracked the code to these runes last night. We still don’t know what she’s summoning, but we know enough to create a counter-ritual for it.”

“There is...one problem, however,” Sam admits, after a moment. Pidge’s and Matt’s faces fall, and then all of them just look tired, and not victorious at all. “We can send the counter-ritual information to our contacts that Allura set up in other cities. And if we can find the source of the center ritual here, we can try to employ a counter ritual of our own here, too. But at this point, with the strength of the blood ritual nearly at its peak, it may not have any effect. Or it might, but the effect will be so weak by comparison it’s negligible.” 

Shiro’s heart sinks. “Why?”

“Too much power behind the blood ritual now,” Matt says grimly. “If we’d been able to do this for the first round, it might have worked with just any old person running a counter ritual. But it’s built up so much, both from the murders and the ritual itself, and more power that Haggar fed into it.”

“Power we  _ think  _ came from the crossroads,” Pidge adds, giving Shiro a significant look. “Remember how Lotor told you his prices were supposed to be invested into the world, but when he was being controlled, it went somewhere else? And we know for sure now Haggar was the one controlling him. I’d bet my life that she stole some of it for herself, and poured some of it into her ritual.”

Shiro presses his lips together. No wonder Haggar had been so furious about losing the crossroads. Losing a cosmic battery for her ritual probably set her back by months.

Sam nods in agreement. “As it stands now, our counter ritual might shave some of the power off of Haggar’s blood ritual and delay her a little, but the spell has too much momentum for a layman to stop. We would need a powerful practitioner of magic to bolster the power of our counterspell for it to have any effect.”

Shiro is quiet for a long moment. The flames in his arm ebb and flow, flare brightly and reduce to embers. Finally, he says softly, “Then you need me.”

Sam hesitates. “This would be... _ extremely  _ advanced for you, Shiro,” he states gently. “Even if you were a natural sorcerer, this would be difficult to master. And you haven’t even been able to direct basic spells yet, or communicate with the magic you do have.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “I know it’s a long shot, but I’m also the only shot we have. We can try and hunt down another sorcerer—Allura might have some contacts who could help, or maybe Rolo. He has to get his empowered charms from  _ somewhere.  _ But if they can’t be found, or can’t get here in time…” 

He lets it hang, but they know what he means.

“I have to at least try,” Shiro finishes quietly. “I refuse to give up on this world without trying  _ everything  _ I can to stop her.” 

“Alright,” Sam says finally, with a slow nod. “Pidge, Matt—start setting up the counter ritual requirements. We’ll need something portable, something we can arrange on short notice. I’ll work with Shiro to run him through the basics of the spell and what we need.” 

So Shiro trains. He trains like his life depends on it, because it  _ does,  _ and billions of other lives besides. 

He pushes himself to learn the voice of the flames given to him better, and to communicate with it better in kind. He still doesn’t know the language of magic, but he stumbles through communicating with the language of feeling instead. It’s difficult to pare down complex thoughts and words in his head to simplistic emotions and feelings, but he gets a little better with practice.

And when he does, he finds the magic  _ almost  _ hears him. Still not easily—the language barrier is difficult to overcome for either of them. The magic expresses itself  _ as  _ magic, and Shiro has never known how to hear magic until a few weeks ago, and he still doesn’t really understand what he hears. But there’s more communication between them now than before. Shiro feels less like a prisoner trapped in a room with a frightened, defensive predator, and more like a prisoner with a cellmate that he’s learned to communicate with through rough gestures.

But the flames don’t like him. That’s clear as day. Well—not really, because it’s more complicated than that. It’s not like they hold ill will towards him—the magic doesn’t _hate_ him. But the flames are trapped, and they know it. They’re desperate to go back to where they belong. 

The original sorcerer, if he had to hazard a guess. He still doesn’t know how Haggar came to be in possession of a sorcerer’s magic, independent of its owner, but it’s clear the magic didn’t go willingly. The flames want to go back to the one that is  _ theirs,  _ and they want nothing to do with Shiro.

He tries to explain to them, once, that he doesn’t really want them either. It hadn’t been his choice to have magic. He doesn’t want this burden. But the thoughts are too complex for their rudimentary feelings-communication, and the flames only respond with sullen silence.

But it’s better than before, at least. He’s starting to learn to hear the flames better, even if he doesn’t understand the words. He’s starting to learn to feel magic better. That strange new sense he’d obtained with this awful gift doesn’t feel as foreign and impossible to comprehend as before. 

Which is good, because his training with Sam is much more intense, and requires every single bit of magic control Shiro can manage. 

It’s more than just memorization exercises and meditation and focusing this time, although much of that is still required. He has to memorize the incantation the Holts create for him, and practice focusing his willpower and his mind on the words even through the worst distractions. That part isn’t hard, since it isn’t all that different from an exorcism, and Shiro had managed to do that when the crossroads themselves were trying to kill him.

But the  _ magic.  _ The magic is hard, because the magic he has doesn’t want to listen to him.

“Spells can be divided into two categories,” Sam explains. “The first is imposing your own will upon the world. That would happen if you mended something, or burned something down, or empowered a charm. The second is using the power of something else to fuel a working on that thing. It’s more subtle and complicated, and lets you work with powers larger than yourself, but if it’s done incorrectly the backlash will be painful and potentially lethal.”

“And which kind am I doing here?” Shiro asks.

Sam presses his lips together. “The second,” he says finally, with a grim expression. “The counter ritual will use the foci we set up to stop the blood ritual, but it will do so by working on the blood ritual itself. You’ll need to be able to take that power and impose your will and your magic on it to counter it.” 

Shiro tries to imagine  _ willingly  _ reaching out to that vile presence, and his stomach churns uncomfortably. His fingers start to heat up as the magic reacts to his distress, and he forces it down with a deep breath. “And if I  _ can’t  _ impose my magic on it?”

“Then we lose,” Sam says quietly. “I suppose our only consolation is none of us will be alive for much longer after that, if we’re at ground zero when the ritual kicks off.”

Great. No pressure. 

But there’s no other choice. Allura had tried, and she’s  _ still  _ trying, but sorcerers were difficult to find in the best of times. Even Rolo had reached out to his magical suppliers, and come up with nothing. Most of his magical connections were routewitches, which wouldn’t work for this sort of thing, and none of them were inclined to go into heroism as a line of work. Since they sold goods on the cryptid black market for a living, that wasn’t exactly surprising.

So it’s only Shiro. Only Shiro against the destruction of the entire planet, and possibly more besides. So he trains, and focuses his will, and works hard to get his magic to understand it needs to  _ listen  _ to him and do what he says. 

The magic doesn’t listen. It’s as finicky as a toddler, and it doesn’t like to take orders from  _ not mine.  _ Shiro gets better at cajoling out flames over the course of the week as he desires, mostly by manipulating his emotions enough to trick the flames into an outburst. But anything subtle just doesn’t  _ work.  _

It’s frustrating, but he doesn’t give up anyway. He lets the Holts keep working the ritual angle, and he lets his friends and the Marmora Society and the Sanctuary lycanthropes keep up the search for Haggar and the Galra cult. He keeps tabs on everything, and makes sure he knows what’s going on at all times. But more than anything else, he sinks deeper into himself, focusing on his will and the magic and the spell he has to cast if the world is going to keep existing, and he tries again, and again, and again. 

It should probably come as no surprise that the week passes in a flash, but somehow it does. They don’t have much to show for their efforts, in the end—a counter ritual designed but with no place to use it, a sorcerer who barely qualifies as one expected to empower it, and absolutely no idea where their enemy is. Everyone is exhausted, everyone is frightened, and everyone feels the press of their time limit drawing steadily closer.

And then, like clockwork, come the seventeenth and eighteenth murders.

This time it’s one of Allura’s volunteers that finds the bodies, tucked away in an alcove of the Garrison Historical Museum after hours. The location had been earmarked as a potential candidate for a murder, and the sasquatch already worked there, which gave her easy access to the place. The murders are called in, and Shiro insists on going once again, despite his friends’ obvious concern after his reaction last time.

But they’re out of options. This is the  _ last  _ set of murders before all hell breaks loose—possibly entirely literally. And Shiro might not be able to successfully cast any spells yet, but he  _ has  _ pushed his magic sense farther in the week, and tonight he’s going to find where that trail of ritual magic leads to.

One way or another.

Just like last week, he can  _ feel  _ that evil miasma long before he sees the actual murders. His ill-gained magic feels it too, and his fingers heat up almost as soon as he senses it. The fire roils uneasily in his arm, whispering,  _ wrong, wrong, wrong.  _

But this time Shiro is more prepared for it. This time that vile feeling doesn’t come as a shock to the system, and he’s able to push forward more, slowly and carefully, until he’s within twenty feet of the bloody ritual. This time his arm doesn’t burst into flames, because from the beginning he communicates to his magic feelings of  _ understanding wrongness  _ and  _ anger and frustration  _ and  _ disgust at badness.  _

The magic isn’t happy, getting so close, and Shiro can almost feel it watching him suspiciously back. But it understands him enough by now to know he won’t force it to empower that wrongness, and it doesn’t react defensively.

The others are already there with him, as always. Kolivan’s Marmora Society followers swarm the area, taking photographs and trying to set up yet another ambush for Haggar. None have succeeded—in every instance, the crime scene disappears without anyone ever seeing her, even with anti-telepathy charms to ensure she isn’t messing with their heads. But they don’t stop trying, and vampires are nothing if not persevering. Sam and Matt Holt bustle around the scene of the crime, directing several vampires in how to purify the area as much as possible, to reduce the effects of the ritual.

But Shiro’s friends surround him directly, carefully watchful and attentive. Keith has an ear cocked that suggests he’s monitoring Shiro’s vitals, after the last incident, and Lance, Hunk and Pidge surround him like an honor guard.

“Make sure I’m not interrupted,” Shiro says, looking around at them. “That includes you, too. I need to be able to finish this without distractions, or interference from Haggar.”

“You got it,” Hunk says, giving him a thumbs up.

“Just be  _ careful,”  _ Keith adds, frowning. “You’re still new to this.”

“New or not, it doesn’t matter,” Shiro says. “We’re out of time, and if this gives us answers, I have to at least try.”

And he closes his eyes, holds out his right hand towards the bloody ritual, fingers spread wide, and concentrates.

Like before, when he focuses, that vile miasma gains more direction. It isn’t just an aura of pure evil filling the room; he can see, or feel, or  _ hear  _ somehow, its places of congregation and where it’s at its strongest. The magic circulates around the blood splatters and the bodies the most, creating a perfect storm of trapped energy in its confines. 

It makes his stomach churn warningly, but Shiro takes another deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth, and soothes away the ill feeling.  _ Patience.  _ There was no need to rush this. Take it slow and careful, and get it right the first time. 

His ill-gained magic stirs unhappily in his arm, and his fingers grow warm.  _ Wrong,  _ it insists.  _ Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not mine. Won’t.  _

Shiro understands its reluctance.  _ We won’t help it,  _ he tries to think back.  _ We need to find it and stop it  _ because  _ it’s wrong.  _ And underlying the thoughts, he tries to layer it with  _ understanding-caution-disgust-anger-triumph.  _ He’s still not sure if the fire understands his thoughts, or if it can even be attuned to them, but the feelings, at least, he knows it understands. 

The magic burns sullenly, suspiciously. But it doesn’t set him or anything else on fire. Progress.

Shiro pushes deeper, searching for the subtleties he hadn’t been able to sense last time. There  _ are  _ some, if he presses hard enough. Some cast-off energy at the edges of the ritual, where the power is wasted, dispersing into nothing. Some lighter touches of less repugnant energy, where the Holts’ purification efforts are at work, dulling the vile touch of the blood magic just a little bit. It’s like watching a single rock try to resist the might of a storm, and he understands it won’t make much of a difference on its own under so much power now, just like Sam had predicted.

But most of all, once again, he can see that flow of energy slipping away from the ritual circle and funnelling away to  _ elsewhere.  _

It reminds him of Oriande, and the shadowy creature that had possessed Lotor, and that strange cord that had disappeared into the void. Haggar was skilled at maintaining control and energy even at a distance, and it showed. That magic  _ has  _ to be going to the center ritual, the one they’re trying to find. 

If he can just follow the cord back to its source, he’ll have her. 

Of course, that’s easier said than done, especially when he’s  _ never  _ done it before. But he tries anyway. He tries to grasp that cord with his newfound sense, and follow it. He’s cautious about actually touching it, even mentally; god only knows what would happen to his mind or his magic if he did. But he  _ follows  _ it carefully—

—Northeast, flowing quickly now, through buildings and over streets without slowing—

—faster still, called by similar energy now, arching in from eight other directions—

—faster  _ still,  _ while the vileness builds and the wrong magic siphons more and more into and endless, bottomless pit, through a hundred mental bars and locks, and there’s something hungry and evil at the bottom and—

_ Wrong! Wrong! Won’t! Won’t! Won’t! _

His arm bursts into violet flames, and with a gasp his magic sense snaps back to himself like a taut rubber band. That vile aura still reeks in his senses. He crashes to his knees, doubles forward on his hands—heedless of the way the tile starts to bubble beneath his right—and promptly throws up everything in his stomach.

“Shiro!” several voices call, distantly.

But closer are the roaring, angry, terrified flames, and that panicked shriek in his mind, over and over.  _ Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Not mine, not mine, not mine!  _

_ I’m sorry,  _ he tries to convey, with underlying feelings of shame and remorse.  _ I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be that strong.  _

The flames roar furiously, but he can tell they’re frightened, too. The heat of them is intense, but entirely defensive. They didn’t want to get that close. And they had gotten  _ too  _ close. 

Whatever Haggar was trying to summon, it was beyond vile. It was absence, and the end of all things.

“Shiro?”

_ Calm down,  _ he tells both himself and the magic.  _ We’re safe. It didn’t get us yet.  _ He breathes deep, trying to focus, and slowly gets himself under control. The flames are slower to take to his calm, but eventually they die down, slithering back into his carved runes in his skin. 

Almost immediately, a cautious hand is placed on his shoulder, and he looks up to meet Keith’s eyes. Lance, Hunk and Pidge all hover around him, just as alarmed, and Hunk hands him a wet paper towel from the nearby public bathrooms to wipe his mouth on. 

“You okay?” Keith asks.

“I know what to do next,” is Shiro’s answer.

“Huh?”

“I know what to do next,” Shiro repeats. “And since she’s definitely watching the crime scene somehow, I’m not saying it here. Get Kolivan and Griffin together immediately. We need to talk in a safe place as soon as possible.” 

Tomorrow night, they were going to finish this. One way, or another.

* * *

“The meatpacking district,” Shiro says, an hour later, from the study of Allura’s penthouse. 

Everyone who matters is there. Shiro had called a full war council, and he’d  _ meant  _ it. Keith, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge were given, as well as the rest of the Holts. Allura, Coran, and a small host of Witness Aeslin were in attendance. Kolivan, Thace and Ulaz represented the Marmora Society. Griffin, as well as his three lieutenants Rizavi, Kinkade and Leifsdottir, had all shown up as soon as they were called. Even the team lead for Allura’s city volunteers, the wulver Olia, had shown up to listen and make suggestions. 

They all listen attentively now, as he circles the map table and points to a spot close to the dead center of the map. “Right here,” he says. “This is where the ritual magic is being filtered to. I was able to follow it with my new...abilities. This is where we need to strike.”

“We have taken several scouting parties through the area,” Kolivan says. “However, I cannot recall personally ever being in the buildings, so it is possible there are new memory charms in play.”

“Madhura past their third moult are immune to memory charms and telepathy,” Olia pipes up helpfully. “And we have a few passive volunteers. They’re not fighters, but they’ve been keeping an eye out on information. If a couple are willing to go with your scouts, they can tell you if something’s up, and you can search for the charms to get the components.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t known that about Madhura, and files it away to add to his dossiers...assuming he lives long enough to ever go back to his apartment again. “Kolivan?”

“That is acceptable,” he says. “I will have some of my men work with Olia’s volunteers as soon as possible to hunt for the charms.”

“Good,” Shiro says. “We’ll need them to get everyone outfitted with the proper countercharms. I’ll make sure Rolo is on standby.” He wishes he could handle it himself, but one thing at a time.

“That isn’t actually the meatpacking district anymore, is it?” Coran says, leaning thoughtfully over the table.

Shiro nods to him. “That’s right,” he says, “Which is the other reason we might have missed this. This section  _ used  _ to be a meatpacking plant—fifty years ago. The district still has the name, and I’m guessing old deaths and old blood have marinated the area and made it even easier to kick this ritual off. But the  _ real  _ reason it’s a good choice is because of the way the city’s built up around it.” He gestures at the buildings sketched on the map, surrounding their target.

“Oh,” Pidge says, adjusting her glasses. “That’s  _ brilliant.  _ So many other stores and storehouses have built up around it, it’s got to be practically unnoticeable on street level. You wouldn’t know it was there anyway unless you were looking for it.”

“Which the creepy memory charms are making you  _ not  _ do,” Lance says, scowling. 

Shiro nods. “There’s no way for anyone to accidentally wander in or witness anything they shouldn’t. The only thing that could catch them at this point is bureaucracy. I’m sure the buildings are still on the books when tax time rolls around.”

Kolivan nods grimly. “We have several buildings of a similar vein for our society members,” he notes. “As long as the taxes are paid, no one looks for anything out of the ordinary. We have done so for generations.”

“And with a johrlac leading the charge, she doesn’t even have to pay,” Matt adds. “She can just make people think she already did, and bam.”

“With the placement of this location, there is almost certainly a direct link to the Garrison underground as well,” Allura notes, folding her wings delicately around herself. “In addition to being well hidden, it does permit an easy escape, or an easy way to transport captives and illegal substances without being seen.”

“Fine,” Keith snaps. “So they were real smart about where they hid their base. We know where it is now. Can we go kick their asses already?”

“Not tonight,” Shiro says. “It’s already past one in the morning. We only have a few hours until daylight, at which point Keith, as well of the Marmora Society, won’t be able to bolster our forces for an attack.” Even if Kolivan and most of his older followers  _ could  _ be awake during the day, they wouldn’t be as strong. Shiro wants to be sure his army is  _ lethal.  _

“We’d need enough time to get those charms ready anyway,” Hunk points out. “Even if Kolivan and Olia’s people can figure out what kind of memory charms Galra is using, it’s probably gonna take Rolo some time to outfit  _ all  _ of us.” 

Shiro nods. “Hunk is right. Plus, I want to be sure Team Holt has enough time to finalize preparations on our counter spell. So we’ll be attacking tomorrow night, at ten pm. It will give us enough time to mobilize, but the city will have quieted a little and we won’t draw unnecessary attention.” 

“HAIL!” The Witness Aeslin cheer. “HAIL THE DECLARATION OF WAR AGAINST THE MOST VILE AND EVIL UNBELIEVERS! HAIL THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS!”

Shiro waits for the cheering to die down. For once, it actually feels bolstering, and he can see it in the determination on everyone else’s faces. 

“Alright,” Griffin says, once the mice fall silent. “That sounds fair. Some of my lycanthropes were hurt rescuing you, but I’ve got plenty of volunteers left who are willing to help out. But how exactly are we doing this?”

“That,” Shiro says, leaning over the map table and reviewing the group at large, “Is what we’re going to talk about right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like last week, I'm taking a day off from posting for New Year's. So the next chapter will be posted a day or two later than usual. Thanks for understanding!
> 
> We're almost at the finish line now.


	33. Homo sapiens: Part Nine

“Anyone who thinks good means chill needs to spend more time with my family. We’ve never been chill. Chill doesn’t save anybody. We like saving people. The ones who can be saved, anyway. Some of them were always beyond salvation.”    
—Elsie Harrington-Price,  _ Imaginary Numbers  _

**_The Altea Penthouse, preparing for battle_ **

The air in Allura’s study is full of tension at nine pm the next night, as the team gathers for the final assault. 

Shiro is armed for bear, and had ventured back to his apartment that morning to grab any and  _ every  _ weapon he could think of to bring for the assault. His usual brace of concealed knives, hidden pistols, police batons, brass knuckles, and a new garrotte are hidden around his person as usual for emergencies. But since he doesn’t care about concealment when out in public anymore, he’s added a few much more visible weapons to his arsenal, including longer knives in thigh sheathes and an actual sword across his back. Another handgun dedicated entirely to silver rounds rests in a holster on one hip, blatantly visible.

He’s vividly aware that all of it may mean nothing, in the end. His right arm is physically weaker than it had been, even with all of his retraining, which could reduce the strength of his attacks. And even if his arm  _ was  _ physically at full strength, guns and swords might get him through Haggar’s swarms of blindly loyal cultists and werelions, but it won’t win the final battle.  _ That  _ will be his toughest fight yet, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be prepared for it.

But he has no choice. He’ll try anyway. It’s all he can do, and if he doesn’t succeed, the world ends. 

The others gather around him, grim and oddly quiet. Even the mice are more subdued than usual, praying fervently for the success of their deities but not cheering joyously as they normally might. 

But for all the solemnity in the air, every single one of them looks determined. Keith is awake, aware, freshly fed, and from the way he shows his teeth, ready to tear apart a few cultists. Lance is armed like Shiro with another pistol, filled with silver rounds and strapped to him with a modified holster that will stay in place even when he transforms. Hunk needs no weaponry, but his snakes hiss and writhe with anticipation, and the easily-removed glasses on his nose are enough indication of his readiness to fight. Pidge has the taser Shiro gave her months ago ready in her long-fingered hands, and even more importantly, a victory over her mother to be allowed to attend the attack alongside her father and brother. Sam and Matt carry several ritual components in small satchels, and review their notes one last time as they wait.

“Kolivan says his team is in place,” Keith reports, looking up from his phone. “They’re ready to go at our signal.”

“Good. And they’re all wearing anti-telepathy and memory protection charms?” Shiro checks. He knows they are, but this is important, and he’s going to be absolutely  _ sure.  _

Keith nods. “Rolo had them outfitted hours ago.” 

“Griffin’s teams are also in place,” Lance adds, looking at his own phone. “Some with Kolivan’s guys, some in other places.”

Shiro nods. The first part of the plan was simple enough. The Marmora Society had scouted the underground during the day, with a few of their older members capable of daylight movement. They’d found several ways into and out of the tunnels that led to the meatpacking district. 

Half of Kolivan’s forces, along with half of Griffin’s and a few of Allura’s volunteers, would swarm from below at the given signal. They would make a coordinated assault at the same time Shiro’s team and the remaining half of their forces attacked from ground level. A two-pronged assault would cause confusion, and the underground forces would hopefully prevent any escape.

“Good,” Shiro says. “Then it’s time for us to move out.” 

“HAIL!” the Aeslin mice cheer, although it’s oddly subdued for them. “PRAISE THE HIGH PRIESTS OF THE LION GODDESS! MAY THEY BE BLESSED BY HER IN THEIR GREAT BATTLE FOR CONTINUED EXISTENCE!”

“No pressure or anything,” Hunk mutters, toying with his fingers nervously.

“Last chance for anyone to back out,” Shiro says, looking around at them, taking note of Hunk’s nervousness and Lance’s uneasy shift from foot to foot. “I won’t hold it against anyone if they want to stay behind. This is going to get bloody.” 

Haggar wasn’t going to give ground easily. People were going to die tonight. Vampires, lycanthropes, cryptid volunteers. This wasn’t anyone’s job to deal with but himself. 

But Lance only snorts. “C’mon, Shiro, you can’t get rid of us  _ that  _ easy.”

“Besides, it’s not like  _ not  _ going would make a difference,” Hunk adds, as he finally manages to stop toying with his hands. “If we don’t win tonight, the world ends. Nowhere to go when the world ends, y’know?”

“I just got my family back,” Pidge adds, adjusting her glasses. “No way they get taken away from me again because of the world ending. I’m in this to the end, one way or another.”

“Yeah,” Lance agrees. “And I can’t find mine either if the world ends, so. Gotta help out.”

“I’m with you until the end,” Keith says fiercely, eyes narrowed. “You’re not going into this alone.”

Shiro had known it was pointless to try and chase them away, but he’s touched by their dedication anyway. “Alright,” he says. “Then let’s go. Coran, you’re driving the van?”

“Of course,” Coran agrees. The man is kitted out in what is undoubtedly his old New Zealand Defence Force uniform, with a rifle slung over one shoulder and a sidearm in a thigh holster. He won’t be coming with them in the final assault, but he will be guarding their escape and acting as getaway driver again in the event they need to make a break for it. 

They turn to head out—and nearly run into Allura in the doorway.

She isn’t dressed in the usual comfortable, open-backed clothing she prefers in her own penthouse that allows her wings freedom of movement. Nor is she bundled up in the long skirts and heavy coat that help hide her wings and birdlike feet, and the wig that makes her downy hair look more human, in the rare occasion she needs to make a public appearance. 

Instead, she’s dressed in more form-fitting clothing that allows her freedom of movement in all six of her appendages, but is also padded enough to provide some degree of protection. Her long, downy hair is tied up in a practical bun, and she carries her long staff under one arm.

“I am coming with you,” she announces to the group at large.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, before the mice break into much more jubilant cheers. “HAIL! HAIL THE COURAGE OF THE LION GODDESS!” 

“Miss!” Coran nearly yells over them a moment later. “You can’t! I really must insist you stay here.”

“I cannot stand idly by while the rest of you walk into such a fierce battle,” Allura says. “This is  _ my  _ city, and  _ my  _ world. I told you all before, I am a part of this fight as much as anyone.”

“But it’s  _ dangerous,”  _ Coran protests. “You could be hurt, or killed, and—are those Alfor’s old combat clothes?” 

Allura nods curtly. “I’ve hemmed them to fit me better. Caladrii don’t have traditional combat uniforms, but these worked well enough for my father.” She brushes her free hand absently over some of the careful padding on one arm. 

Coran groans in frustration, and gives Shiro a pointed look, as if to say,  _ well? Deal with this already!  _

“It’s going to be bloody, Allura,” Shiro repeats softly. “People will die. People will get hurt. There’s no way to avoid it.” Caladrii were natural healers, dedicated to the preservation of life even at the risk of their own. But they could not bear the sight of death, or the gruesome sights of injuries they couldn’t treat. Allura was tougher than most, a streak she had inherited from her father if Coran was to be believed, but this would still be difficult for her. 

Allura shudders, and draws her wings close defensively as she closes her eyes and breathes deep. “I know,” she says after a moment. “I’ve seen the photographs of that vile ritual. I know what this johrlac has done. But that’s precisely  _ why  _ I must go. I know I cannot heal all of our forces, but if I can heal even some, reduce our casualties and put our warriors back into the fight, then it will be worth it.”

The team glances uneasily back and forth between Shiro, Coran and Allura. Coran sputters indignantly, face red. “Miss, you can’t,” he repeats. “I’d really think you must stay here—”

Allura scowls. “I am not helpless, Coran,” she says, before turning to meet Shiro’s eyes. “You’ve helped me protect my city for many years, and it has been helpful to have someone with your skills acting on my behalf. But I was ready to protect this city from  _ you,  _ when we first met. I can hold my own.”

She’s not wrong. Shiro still vividly remembers her attacking him years ago, on the roof of his first apartment building. She’d come close to doing some serious damage to him, even as a cryptid with instincts for healing, and not hurting. He probably would have been able to defeat her in the end, if he’d really wanted to, and if Coran hadn’t been there on the sidelines with a rifle pointed at him. But she would have made him fight much harder for the victory than he would have expected from a caladrius. Allura was fierce in her own right, and absolutely dedicated to her city.

“I’m going,” Allura says, chin held high. She looks so regal in that moment, it’s no wonder the cryptid citizens of Garrison treat her like royalty. “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

The team exchanges anxious glances again, before turning almost as one to Shiro.

He shrugs. “Alright. You’re in.”

The mice let out a victorious, “ _ HAIL! Hail the Lion Goddess! The Goddess rides with her High Priests to battle! Victory is Assured!”  _ Several of them begin dancing on the tables, sofas, and available floorspace, while others burst into spontaneous religious song. 

Coran groans, putting his head in his hands. “You’re just like your father, miss,” he says despairingly. “He was always running off trying to get himself killed, too, for the good of the world.”

_ “HAIL!”  _ the mice cheer. “HAIL THE GOD OF GREAT HEALING AND GREATER SILENCE! HAIL THE HIGH PRIEST OF DAMN IT STOP TRYING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED!” 

In a sudden moment of clarity, Shiro suddenly has a  _ much  _ better understanding of Coran’s Aeslin-given name. 

The man sighs, but after a moment raises his head from his hands, brushing his fingers through his bushy mustache. “Well,” he says with a sigh, “It’ll give me even more gray hairs, but even so, your father would be proud of you, miss.”

Allura smiles.

“But,” Coran adds, holding up a finger, “If you’re going into the battle, then I am too, as your bodyguard.”

Her smile turns icy. “I don’t need your protection, Coran.”

“On this point I stand  _ firm,  _ miss,” Coran says, crossing his arms. “I protected your father whenever he was foolish enough to rush into combat to save someone, and I’ll do the same for you. Alfor would never forgive me if I didn’t.”

“It is So!” One of the red-dyed Aeslin mice, of the priesthood of Allura’s father, pipes up. “For, lo, did not the God of Great Healing and Greater Science say in his Final Moments, ‘Keep My Daughter Safe, Old Friend’? And did not the High Priest of Damn It Stop Trying to Get Yourself Killed swear on his Very Life he would uphold this Sacred Charge?” 

“There you have it,” Coran says, strangely gruff. “And the mice never lie. So that’s that.”

“I think it’s a fair request,” Shiro says, when Allura still looks displeased by the arrangement. “I know you can defend yourself and hold your own in combat, but if you’re focusing on healing our fighters, you can’t focus on protecting yourself. It’ll be good for you to have an escort, and Coran has experience with it.”

It would mean losing Coran as a rear guard. But then, setting Coran as rear guard seems pointless, the more Shiro thinks about it. They don’t really need an exit strategy. If they fail, they’re going to die anyway, because the world isn’t going to exist much longer. 

“Very well,” Allura concedes. “As long as no one tries to dissuade me from accompanying you.”

“No, but if we keep talking about it, we’re going to be late to our own attack,” Keith pipes up, scowling a little. “Allura’s joining, now can we  _ go?”  _

“Let’s move out,” Shiro agrees, and leads the way to the door.

The drive over is tense, not to mention uncomfortable. Everyone can feel the intensity in the air, and every single one of them knows that by the time the night is over, one of them may not be coming back from this. Or maybe none of them will, if things go very wrong. 

Shiro can practically see those thoughts drifting through everyones’ heads. He can see it in the way Keith remains preternaturally still, in the tightness of Coran’s fingers on the steering wheel, in the Holts’ solemn expressions, in the way Lance’s spines emerge from his head and shoulders as he loses control of his transformation out of nerves. Hunk’s hair hisses as the snakes coil into warning strike patterns, prompting everyone to give him the front seat. Even Allura, despite her regal posture, clutches at the heavy coat that hides her wings in the car nervously. 

Shiro is no stranger to tension before a battle, but this is pressing and heavy even for him.  _ Everything  _ rides on him, and his ability to do something he’s never been able to do before tonight. If he fails...the world ends. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, and as if in answer, the magic locked in his right arm roils and his fingers grow hot.

_ Please,  _ he thinks to the magic softly.  _ Please, just tonight. Just once. You  _ have  _ to obey me.  _

The magic doesn’t understand him. It’s almost sullen, burning inside his bones and his blood resentfully.  _ Not mine,  _ it seems to say.  _ Not mine, not mine, not mine.  _

God,  _ please,  _ let this work. Shiro’s been practicing all day without much luck. Just this once.  _ Please.  _

The ride to the meatpacking district only takes half an hour, but it feels like an eternity. They leave the nondescript van parked a block over, uncaring about parking tickets. If they fail, at least they won’t have to pay them. 

They don’t have to worry about being seen, at least. They’re careful to keep Allura’s wings and Hunk’s hair hidden, but there’s no point hiding Shiro’s arsenal or the rifle slung across Coran’s back. Based on the Marmoran scout reports, the entire block surrounding the old slaughterhouse and meatpacking plant is strung with carefully concealed memory charms. They keep innocent cryptids and humans from noticing or remembering any of the Cult of Galra’s activities, or reporting anything to the police. Ironically, it will also keep them from reporting anything suspicious regarding Shiro and his friends, or their assault. At the very least, they won’t have to worry about involving anyone in tonight’s bloodbath that didn’t deserve it. 

Those who are innocent won’t be involved, but those who are in the know certainly  _ will  _ be. Keith’s gaze sweeps the area, and he nods abruptly in the direction of one of the nearby allies. Even as Shiro watches, several Marmoran vampires slip out of the concealing shadows to join them, alongside half a dozen transformed werelions. Several other cryptid volunteers of all kinds follow—other bogeymen, gorgons of both the lesser and pliny’s subspecies, jinks, ghouls, sasquatch, lilu, wadjet, even a single waheela. Shiro has worked alongside many of them in the past, and several nod or wave respectfully to him as they gather, ready to follow him into battle. 

“Everyone is in place,” Griffin, the only member of the werelions still in his human form, whispers to them softly. “We’re ready at your mark.”

“Good,” Shiro says. “Remember the plan. Breach the entrance, let Sam and Matt direct us. Get the Holts and myself to that center ritual, then play defense until we can interfere with it. If anyone sees the johrlac, be cautious, but take her down at any cost. Let Griffin and his team handle any werelions that approach, especially if you’re a mammal. Clear?”

“Clear,” the gathered troops answer, solemn yet determined.

“Good. Griffin, Ulaz, notify the underground teams to move.  _ Go!”  _

They make for the scouted entrance in a rush. There are no guards outside, but the moment Keith smashes the door in with his enhanced vampiric strength, they’re met face to face with no less than six werelions and a few human cultists in an open entrance alcove.

“Hunk!” Shiro yells, as several large cats and weapon-toting humans start charging them. “Front and center!”

“On it!” Hunk acknowledges, pushing to the front of the pack. The rest of the team backs away from his hissing snakes and press their polarized glasses more firmly over their noses as Hunk whips his own protective glasses off, glaring in the direction of their rushing opponents.

The results, as always with Hunk’s gorgon gaze, are immediate. Three of the werelions stumble mid-charge, collapsing to their bellies and tripping up several of their allies. Several of the humans collapse as well after meeting Hunk’s eyes, sprawled in an unconscious heap on the concrete floor.

Hunk’s gaze isn’t perfect, however. Anyone smart enough to not look him in the eyes isn’t affected, which still leaves three werelions charging straight for them, and two cultists who are already removing firearms from their ridiculous robes.

“Lance!” Shiro orders, drawing one of his own guns. “The shooters!”

“Got the left!” Lance yells back, already pulling his own firearm free from his specially made harness. He fires two quick shots over the heads of the charging werelions, felling one of the cultists before they can fire. Shiro takes down the second with his own firearm, narrowly preventing a hail of bullets from cutting into his own team.

By then the werelions are nearly on them. But Lance, Hunk and Shiro all drop back, allowing Griffin, Leifsdottir, and two other Sanctuary werelions to surge past them in their transformed states. 

When Shiro had first seen them, they’d made scrawny, underfed lions. That had changed in the months since they had been rescued, and they now take the forms of large, powerful cats. Griffin leaps upon one of the attacking male lions with a frightening snarl, while his followers set upon the other two attackers. The enemy lycanthrope charge comes to a grinding halt with yowls and screeches of surprise as they find themselves evenly matched. The Galra werelions fight hard, but the threat of infection means nothing to a fellow lycanthrope, and they’re outnumbered. Within moments, Griffin’s team makes short work of the initial charge.

“Good work,” Shiro says, charging farther up the hallway with the rest of his attack force after him. “Leave the unconscious ones, they’ll be out for ten minutes anyway and we can’t waste time. Sam, Matt, do you recognize where we are yet?”

“I think so,” Sam says, following after. “It feels familiar. Take a left at the turn up ahead!”

They take the turn, keeping Hunk in front to stun any surprise attackers. The rest of them form a defensive wedge around Sam, Matt, Pidge, and Allura, with several of the Marmora vampires bringing up the rear guard. Lance, thinking quickly, leaps onto the ceiling to provide sniping coverage without putting their allies immediately at risk with friendly fire.

The tactic works surprisingly well. There are more cultists in the hallways, and mere minutes after their breach, an alarm begins to sound in the old meatpacking building. The enemy knows they’re there. But they don’t have the room to effectively use their no doubt enormous numbers in narrow hallways. Shiro’s attacking force has more ranged capabilities, and agile but strong fighters to take the advantage of the terrain. They brute force their way through three more hallways without losing a single member of their fighting force, gaining momentum as they go.

Then they hit their first snag. The halls open up into a wide-open ground floor, where animals would have once been penned years ago awaiting slaughter for the building’s original purpose. There’s a second story above leading to old offices and workrooms, with a balcony overlooking the open animal pens. 

Both floors are packed with Galra servants, brandishing weapons and bearing claws and teeth, all of them fixated on Shiro’s attack force.

“We need to get to the other side!” Matt whispers in Shiro’s ear from six feet away, throwing his voice with the skill of any bogeyman. “That door across the way. I remember this. It goes down to a basement entrance. The sacrifices are just inside another room there!”

Which probably meant Haggar was working out of the underground. That means they might potentially have backup from Kolivan and the forces swarming up from below—assuming they survive the assault across this open room and can make it there to begin with.

“Everyone, be careful,” Shiro shouts back over his shoulder, to the rest of his team. “Keep the defensive circle up and protect each other. We need to get to the door across from us. Go!”

They go.

The moment Shiro’s force steps into the open room, the Galra cultists and werelions attack, and the world devolves into pure chaos. Shiro’s forces try to keep their defensive formation, as ordered. But while it helps repel the enemy ground forces, the ones on the second floor are armed with guns, and Shiro’s forces make a clustered, easy target. He and Lance try to take down the second floor shooters, and the jinks in his army are doing their best to twist fate enough that bullets miss their own people. But there’s far more enemy gunmen than there are allies to deal with them. 

“Ulaz!” Shiro hollers, over the roar of werelions and the loud retort of firearms. “Take a few Marmora agents and neutralize those shooters!” Of all of Shiro’s forces, the vampires were the fastest and the most agile, and had the best chance of reaching the second floor and successfully halting the gunmen. 

“At once,” Ulaz acknowledges. He barks orders to the squad of vampires Kolivan had left with them under Ulaz’ command, with specific instructions to listen to Shiro. Several of the vampires break off, darting for the stairs or climbing the walls with mind-blurring speed. Hopefully, they’ll be able to give Shiro’s ground forces cover.

The hail of bullets does start to slow after a few minutes, but not without claiming casualties. Several cryptid volunteers and at least one of the Marmoran vampires are down, and others are wounded. Worse, the loss of the Marmoran team in their ground defenses means the press of cultists and werelions grow closer still, without extra hands to keep them at bay.

But for all that, Shiro’s team  _ does  _ push forward, step by step. The battlefield in the slaughterhouse is all chaos and movement, with bodies leaping, slashing, screaming, bleeding and dying. But they make the Galra pay threefold for every casualty they take, and they  _ are  _ advancing. They can’t afford not to.

Everything is chaotic, and so Shiro focuses on what’s in front of him. He has to put his firearm away, exchanging it for the sword over his shoulder and a long silver knife strapped to his thigh, for fear of shooting allies. The blades find more than one cultist, or cut deep into a werelion’s throat or eye socket when it focuses on one of his allies. There’s blood  _ everywhere,  _ on his weapons and clothes and making the ground slippery, filling the air with the stench of it. 

Shiro knows he’s being more careless than he should be, with half of his opponents carrying a blood-transmitted disease. At this point he can’t  _ afford  _ to care. Not about that. Not when they need to move  _ forward,  _ and too much is at stake to care about the life of one man. 

So he fights, and he kills, over and over and over, settling into a rhythm of murder trained into him for years. This is what the Covenant made him for. In this moment, he’s exactly what they need him to be, their vaunted champion of executions and slayings, only this time he’s doing it for the whole damn world. Human, cryptid, Covenant or not. He’s going to kill so he can  _ save.  _

He catches glimpses of the others through the flashes of battle, when he can spare a moment to survey the fight. The formation is breaking, slightly, but his friends hold their own, vicious and determined and desperate to survive. They’re dangerous, all of them, and he’s never been so glad to have them on his side.

Keith stays near him, guarding his flank, a gleaming silver knife in one hand, and his treasured personal knife in another. Both blades are coated in gore. Keith himself looks, for the first time, like something truly out of a vampire horror story, red eyes gleaming, fangs bared, snarling and savage. As Shiro watches, he sidesteps the charge of a snarling transformed lioness, smashes her to the ground with a stunning strike enhanced with brute vampiric strength, and sinks the silver blade into her eye socket. She stops moving quickly, and Keith withdraws the blade, already on the lookout for the next target.

Above, Lance scuttles along the balconies to the second floor in his reptilian-dog form, helping the Marmoran agents take out the gunmen. Shiro catches flashes of that spiny form from the corners of his eyes as Lance circles the catwalks, leaping onto the second floors and pitching the gunmen over the sides into the battle below, or gouging them with his claws and spines. The cultists opposite try to shoot him, but the chupacabra is too quick for them to hit, racing along the walls shockingly fast, and often causing the Galra men to shoot their own.

Behind him, Hunk plays defense for those in the inner ring of the formation. Though not as aggressive as Keith or Lance, he proves to be a solid, unmoving detractor for the bulk of the Galra attackers. Those unfortunate enough to meet his eyes find themselves stunned, unable to move forward. Those that  _ do  _ move forward into Hunk’s range find themselves on the receiving end of venomous fangs, and their flesh rapidly turning to petrified stone. The scattered remains of partial statues trail behind Shiro’s team as they press forward, human and lion alike. Hunk has never been a fan of combat, but he takes protecting his chosen family  _ incredibly  _ seriously, and he refuses to let those closest to him die.

Pidge, alongside her father and brother, provide a stark reminder of  _ why  _ humans have feared bogeymen for so long. Although inside the defensive ring, they are not impervious to injury or attack, and occasionally a werelion or a suicidal cultist manage to breach the protective circle to try and strike at those Shiro’s force is so keen on protecting. They never succeed. Pidge applies the taser Shiro had gifted her with fearlessly, or leaps onto the backs of cultists with no hesitation, wrapping her arms around their necks. Matt lays about with a staff he had borrowed from Allura, and Sam’s long, multi-jointed fingers find their way around cultist throats more than once. They may be scientists and scholars, but given the opportunity to fight against their abusers, they’ve taken it without question.

Even Allura and Coran contribute to the battle. Allura’s expression is paler and sickly, no doubt a response to the stench of blood and offal and the screams of the dying, all things her healing species cannot bear. But she pushes onward stubbornly, ducking through their defensive lines to heal fallen allies and encourage them to keep going. Galra cultists that assume she’s an easy target soon come to regret trying to strike at her, and more than once she cracks a foolish cultist over the head or in the stomach with her staff, driving them back. And through it all Coran stays stalwartly at her side, ever alert in the fight. He deters would-be attackers that would harm his charge, snipes gunmen from the second floor railings, and helps Allura drag injured cryptids into the defensive circle.

Between Shiro’s close friends, and their allies—the Marmoran agents, the Sanctuary lycanthropes, combat-ready cryptid volunteers from half a dozen races—they make their way forward. It’s bloody. It’s violent. No matter how hard Shiro fights, they lose people. But they move.

And then, as they reach the doorway, they nearly lose.

Shiro only looks away for a moment when they’re nearly at their goal, to check the position and status of his army. They’re fighting hard, but they’re starting to be overwhelmed. The Galra seem to have infinite numbers of followers, packed away in this unassuming, hidden building, while Shiro’s troops—though fiercely dedicated—are finite in number. The press of attackers is starting to become overwhelming, and his mind flies, trying to find a solution.

Then an enormous male werelion emerges from the very hallway they’re targeting, jaws wide, and leaps straight onto Shiro. 

Everything is suddenly a blur, and information comes to him only in pieces. He hears Keith shriek his name, and it’s echoed by half a dozen other voices. He sees flurries of movement all around him, as his allies try to reach him in time. His vision is filled with tawny fur and a long mane and enormous, drooling teeth. And then his senses are overwhelmed by  _ pain,  _ as enormous claws dig into his arm and knock the silver knife out of his hand, and a too-heavy weight slams him onto his back, resting atop him. 

His mind is nothing  _ but  _ agony, then, as the claws dig deep and he screams in pain. Agony, and fear, and panic.  _ It can’t end like this. It can’t!  _

His arm grows hot, and bursts into violet flames.

It’s not willful, not of his own volition. The magic has  _ always  _ automatically reacted to his distress, his high-strung emotions. It’s been quiet as he fights, when his mind goes to a place of focus and concentration and precision, but when that discipline vanishes and is replaced by panic, the magic comes surging back.

The werelion yowls in surprise, hesitating for one fraction of a second, inches away from sinking its teeth into Shiro’s neck. Shiro  _ doesn’t  _ hesitate, dropping his sword and slamming his burning palm onto the creature’s face, over one of its eyes.

The creature howls as it’s set alight,  _ instantly.  _ It shouldn’t be possible, for anything alive to go up in flames that fast. But these are no ordinary flames; they’re sorcerer’s fire, the very essence of the force of heat itself, violet and dancing and wild. The flames leap over the creature’s fur, set its whole mane alight, and travel back along its body to the very tip of its tail, until the whole lycantrope is a beast of pure, violet fire. 

It leaps off of him with another yowl, scrambling madly for relief with obvious agony. It smashes through its own allies, blinded with pain and heedless of the damage it causes, whimpering in pain, before finally crashing to the ground several feet distant with a low moan. The flames change from fierce violet to ordinary red and orange, but it’s clear by then that the creature is already dead. The corpse keeps burning, and the stunned Galra keep their distance.

Shiro is stunned himself. The charred smell of burning fur and meat was more repulsive than the blood scents he’s grown used to, and the damage he’d done in just a few bare seconds—and to a lycanthrope, no less—was horrifying. His left shoulder hurts, where the creature’s claws had dug into him, and yet he barely feels it compared to the stomach-churning horror settling into him now. 

He’ll see this moment in his dreams for the rest of his life. He already knows it.

His arm is  _ still  _ on fire, the magic twisting inside the deep wounds on his right arm, throbbing and hot and painful. The heat of the flames are intense and insistent, and the magic doesn’t seem happy.  _ Not mine!  _ It insists.  _ Not mine! Not mine!  _ It’s almost as if it feels  _ tricked  _ into acting, used against its will. 

_ I didn’t want to do that either,  _ Shiro thinks, frightened inside. But if he hadn’t, he’d be dead right now. And he can’t die yet. Not until he’s done what he has to do.

So instead, heart in his throat, he tries to calm himself.  _ Communicate with emotions,  _ he reminds himself, but it’s a lot harder to use in practice, when he’s still shaking inside from that awful kill. And it works, sort of, enough that the writhing flames leaping high over his head settle down to slim tongues of violet flame, curling over his fingers and around his arm. It’s not quite enough to let him use his sword again, on the ground where he’d dropped it to use the magic, so he leaves it there.

“Shiro!” Keith appears in front of him, frantic, offering him a hand to pull him upright. Shiro takes it with his left, wincing as it pulls at the claw wounds in his left shoulder, and moments later the rest of his forces swarm around him. Allura appears at his side, pressing her hands to the injury, and a moment later the wounds start to knit together and the bleeding slows.

“Get through the doorway,” Shiro orders his forces, glancing around quickly, doing a rapid headcount. They’ve lost so many—at least half of the volunteers are down, and two of Griffin’s Sanctuary werelions are dead. Many more are injured. There’s simply no way Allura can keep up with  _ all  _ of the wounds. 

But they made it to the door. They’re almost at the ritual. And the Galra unexpectedly stay back, watching Shiro like he’s a demon. Or more specifically, Shiro’s hand, which still burns with violet flames, licking over his fingers and arm. He holds it out towards them, palm flat, and the werelions and cultists recoil as though frightened. Several glance at the still-burning corpse of the werelion Shiro had killed. 

“Stay back,” Shiro snarls at them. He’s bluffing—he has no idea how to utilize the flames in his hand effectively, or make a kill like that happen again, even if he’d wanted to. 

But the cultists and the werelions don’t know that. They stay back.

Shiro’s team funnels into the hallway, and the Marmoran team brings up the rear, Ulaz at their head. None of the vampires are uninjured, at this point, and one of Ulaz’s eyes is sealed shut, bleeding badly. But they’re still standing, and Ulaz nods to Shiro curtly, standing inside the doorway and bringing his sword to bear.

“We will guard this hallway,” he informs Shiro. “And prevent them from following for as long as possible.”

Shiro nods. It’s probably a suicide mission, but they need all the time the Marmorans can buy. “Good luck,” he says sincerely.

“And the same to you,” Ulaz agrees, before turning to his surviving followers and giving curt orders. Shiro leaves him behind, rejoining his forces and leading them down into the dark.

The moment he begins heading down the hallway, he can feel it: the first traces of that same, evil miasma he’d sensed at the most recent ritual killings, ever since he’d gained a sense for magic. The flames sense it too, because they roar higher again, tongues of flame still licking over his fingers and arm, and scream in his head,  _ Wrong, wrong, wrong! Won’t!  _

Shiro grits his teeth, and fights hard to calm his emotions, and the magic by proxy. It’s enormously difficult, when he doesn’t feel calm at all, and his heart thuds in his chest in reaction to that vile feeling. He manages to temper the flames, and they gradually sink into the carved runes in his arm once more, but it’s a hard-fought fight.

“We’re close,” Sam yells to the group at large, as they fight their way down the hallway. It’s easier now, with close quarters again, and only takes a few of them to keep them moving forward. “Just a few more turns and one set of stairs, I think.”

With the way that terrible aura grows steadily stronger, the more they force their way down the halls, Shiro knows he’s right. It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably, and the thought of having to face it by himself is frightening. 

_ Can I do this? Can I use magic to fight back this evil force  _ she  _ created?  _

It doesn’t seem like he could. He can barely keep the magic trapped in his arm from burning relentlessly. He can’t  _ control  _ it. It doesn’t  _ listen.  _

But he has to try. He  _ has  _ to. He will, to his dying breath. 

He just hopes it works.

They burst through the last of their opposition, and smash their way into a massive antechamber in the underground. There are more cultists here, waiting and facing something in the center with utmost reverence, and they’re unprepared for Shiro’s forces falling upon them.

“Don’t spill blood near the ritual!” Sam warns, and their forces take care not to do so as they stun or kill the cultists in the room. Shiro has no pity for them. Matt and Sam had been clear that the cultists willingly helped with the murders and ritual preparations, without needing to be forced to by Haggar’s mind control. They chose to put the whole world at risk. If they died, it was on their own shoulders.

“Yeah!” Lance hollers, as he lands on the ground near Shiro and shifts back to his humanoid form. “We kicked some serious cultist butt! I can’t believe we made it, we’re awes—”

He freezes, brag trailing off into a startled whimper, staring at the center of the room. Shiro follows his gaze, past the fallen cultists and their own forces, to the thing that had held the Galra followers’ attention with such reverence.

Bodies. Eighteen corpses, many of which are familiar from previous ritual deaths they’d found, arranged with disgusting precision in a wide circle. Each body is carefully posed, arms outstretched, to lightly grasp the hand of the corpse next to them on either side. The bodies are still carved with runes, and symbols paint the flat stone floor around them. But there is surprisingly little blood, other than a few smears here and there, where the bodies had clearly been rearranged each time a new pair joined them to maintain perfect symmetry. 

It’s the most vile thing Shiro has ever seen, in all his years of fighting against vile things in the cryptid world. Even if he  _ couldn’t  _ sense the sheer evil wafting from that circle like an awful scent, he would still be horrified by the disgusting arrangement of murders, all for Haggar’s terrible plans. 

He clearly isn’t alone in thinking so. Hunk turns around and retches on the floor, clutching at his stomach. Several other volunteer crytpids join him, and one of Griffin’s werelions shifts back to human form to do the same. Allura’s expression is furious, but it’s also full of pain and horror, and there are actual tears running down her cheeks as Coran holds her comfortingly. Shiro’s never, in all the years he’s worked with her, ever seen her cry like that. Even less emotional members like Keith look haunted and grim at the sight before them.

But Shiro can understand why. His own stomach churns warningly, and he’s not far from joining Hunk and the others in losing his meager dinner. That sense of pure  _ evil  _ that comes from the center ritual constantly puts every sense he has on edge. Ice runs up his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. His right arm is too hot, barely kept at bay from igniting, and the flames inside shriek about the wrongness of it all, refusing to partake. 

Shiro wants to break. But now more than ever, the survivors of the battle are looking to  _ him  _ for guidance. So he swallows his revulsion and his fear, tears his eyes away from the ritual yet again, and looks over what’s left of his would-be soldiers. 

“Keep your heads in the game,” he says, and he’s genuinely shocked with himself, that he manages to mostly conceal his shaking voice and project confidence. “We’re not done yet. Pidge, Matt, Sam, get to work setting up that counter ritual. Allura, use the time we have to heal as many people as you can. Keith, Griffin, contact our underground pincer, see how Kolivan and Rizavi are doing and if we can expect backup. Everyone else—fortify those entrances, make sure we won’t be interrupted.”

As if broken out of a daze, his remaining troops jump to with a will. Most of them do their best to not look at the grizzly ritual in the center of the room as they rush to take up defensive positions in doorways and scout for possible hidden exits. Allura avoids looking at it as well as she deals with the worst injuries, while Coran stays by her side and helps apply basic first aid to those who can limp by without healing. Griffin shifts back to his human form and gets on his phone, as does Keith, although the latter never strays far from Shiro.

But it’s the Holts who leap to do perhaps the most important work of all: preparing, as much as possible, to counter Haggar’s blood ritual. 

They move fast, unslinging backpacks full of materials and getting to work. Sam shouts orders and his children comply immediately, etching containment symbols with jars of white paint, arranging crystals, and sprinkling purified salts, herbs and unicorn water. They work around the entire circumference of the blood ritual in the center, moving quickly but precisely. 

Shiro can sense it working, to a tiny degree. He can feel the way their work encourages purified energy, the way everything it does counteracts that aura of evil. 

But it’s too weak to do anything by itself. There’s no strength or power behind their workings, unlike the awful thing in the center of the room, with the might of eighteen close murders and dozens more all over the country behind it. They may as well try to redirect a hurricane by blowing on it. 

By itself, it’s nothing. But with a sorcerer, they might have a chance. And that’s where he comes in. 

_ Please,  _ he begs, feeling the flames writhe and burn inside his arm.  _ Just this once, obey me. Just this once.  _

“Kolivan says they’re making progress,” Keith reports. “But the underground entrances are more complicated than we thought. Haggar’s got a lot of followers down here. It’s taking longer than anticipated to get through them.”

“I’m getting similar reports from Rizavi and Kinkade,” Griffin agrees. “They’re dealing with the cultists, but it’s possible the Galra cult will get backup before we do. There’s just too many.”

“Which means we might have company,” Shiro says, eyeing the doorways around them. There are four entrances to the sacrifice chamber, perfectly centered on each of the four cardinal directions by coincidence—or maybe, considering who they’re dealing with, not coincidence at all. The southern door is the one they’d come through, and if they’re lucky, Ulaz and his Marmoran team can hold for some time. That still leaves three entrances where enemies, not allies, might come bursting through in the middle of the most important work of their lives.

“Griffin—I want you to take command of the defenses,” Shiro says, after a few moments. He’s good with organizing teams, and had a sound head for strategy. “Do what you can to keep those doors from being breached.”

Griffin looks surprised, for a moment, but then he nods. “You got it, sir,” he says, before turning on his heels and heading for the nearest door. Leifsdottir follows after him, already in discussion with Griffin about tactics and defensive measures. 

“What about us?” Lance asks. He, Hunk, Keith, Allura and Coran have all gathered close now, in a loose cluster around Shiro, awaiting orders. 

“You’ll be guarding me,” Shiro says quietly. “To do what I need to do, I need to be able to focus on my job without any distractions.” He clenches his right fist, and the heat builds inside his arm, sullen and temperamental. “If we  _ do  _ get breached, I need you to keep whoever attacks us off me.”

“They won’t get close,” Keith promises, eyes narrowed. The others nod in solemn agreement. 

“Shiro!”

He looks up at the sound of his name. Pidge hurries over to him, while Sam and Matt follow at a slower pace, carefully inspecting their handiwork and making minute adjustments to crystals and symbols as they approach. 

“It’s as ready as it’s ever going to get,” Pidge says, reaching him. “Everything else is up to you.”

_ Up to me. The whole world rests on my shoulders. All in the hand of a novice, when it comes to magic.  _

_ Please. Just this once, do what I say. Obey me.  _

“It’s time, son,” Sam agrees grimly, pointing to a spot in front of the ritual. 

Shiro steps forward obediently, but the closer he gets to the dead bodies, the violent symbols, the miasma of pure  _ evil  _ that fills the air around that ritual, the harder it is to move, and the more his arm burns inside.  _ Won’t! Won’t! Won’t!  _ The flames shriek inside him, over and over.  _ Wrong! Wrong! Won’t! Not mine, not mine, not mine!  _

Those last few steps  _ hurt.  _ His arm smolders inside with heat and pressure that rivals weeks ago, when the flames had been contained with counter symbols. His stomach churns so badly he feels he  _ must  _ vomit. He can barely breathe for the stench or taste or  _ feel  _ of that vile magic. Inside his mind aches from the frenzied, rebellious not-quite-screaming of the fires in his arm.

But he takes deep breaths, and plants his feet step by step, and forces himself to within feet of the first of the corpses where Sam points. It’s at the very edge of the white circles and symbols they’ve painted, in front of one of the crystals. He deliberately sits himself down in front of it, crossing his legs and ignoring the frantic, wild protests of the magic trapped in his arm. 

“Remember,” Sam says, crouching next to him for a moment. “Remain calm and focused. The incantation is meant to help, but it’s ultimately the willpower and the magic that direct the focus of the spell. Everything we’ve done here acts as a focus for you to shape it, but your will and your magic will give it power. Let it come naturally.”

Shiro can’t help but snort at that. “Naturally. I’m an artificial sorcerer. Nothing comes to me  _ naturally.”  _

“It  _ can,”  _ Sam insists, putting a hand on his left shoulder. “You’ve already progressed more than I ever thought possible. The fact that you’re learning to use this new sense you have is incredible. Try to experience the magic the way it experiences itself. Feel what  _ it  _ feels. If you can do that, I know you can do this.”

Easier said than done. Shiro might have progressed pretty far, for someone born without magic, being asked to understand a whole new sense and understanding of the world. But he’s about to attempt something only a skilled, experienced sorcerer should do. 

But he can’t fail. He  _ won’t  _ fail. He has to believe in himself, because everyone in the world is relying on  _ him.  _

“Alright.” He glances up at Sam and nods once. The bogeyman smiles at him, pats his shoulder one last time, and stands back to let him work. His friends array loosely around him—Lance and Keith to his right, Pidge and Hunk to his left, Allura, Coran, Matt and Sam at his back—each prepared to defend and heal. They believe in him too, and they’re ready to work with him to make sure Haggar’s awful plans never come to fruition. 

“Good luck,” Hunk says. The others nod fiercely.

“Thanks,” Shiro says. “I’ll need it.”

_ I can do this. I won’t fail. _

_ Please. Obey me.  _

He reaches out, cups his right hand over the focal crystal in front of him, careful not to smudge the white paint, and closes his eyes.

“Reverse the flow,” Shiro whispers, beginning the incantation. As he speaks, he  _ focuses,  _ imagining the ritual and the corpses and the counter symbols the Holts had painted. He extends his hesitant sense of magic until he can feel it around him, as more than just that awful cloud of pure evil. He can feel the way the magic funnels into the lines of the ritual, into the symbols on the bodies. He can feel lines of magic coming from  _ elsewhere,  _ the sources of the other, smaller rituals all around Garrison, even if the bodies and the blood and the symbols are gone. It’s like a great flood of energy, moving like a rushing river, with so much momentum. And he has to stop that momentum, somehow.

“Close the door,” Shiro whispers next, and focuses harder on the magic. Not just the momentum of it that he can feel, but the subtler aspects. That torrent of magic is powerful and awful, but it’s rushing to  _ somewhere,  _ somewhere Shiro can’t see or feel by any sense he has. It’s like watching a rushing river flooding into a dark tunnel. The water goes  _ somewhere,  _ but it’s beyond his comprehension to know where, based on where he stands.

He can’t see it, but he knows logically where it’s heading. The Holts had explained to him, about giving power to something in another reality, to give it the strength to come through to his. All this power is being refined and guided towards whatever Haggar is trying to usher into their world. It’s so  _ much  _ power, and the pressure is too great. It’s only a hair's breadth from snapping that wall of quintessence, and tearing a hole to another reality. Shiro’s not sure how he knows, exactly; it feels like instinct more than anything else. It’s too close for comfort. 

And he has to stop it somehow.

“Reverse the flow,” he repeats again, concentrating harder on the energies he can feel. He’d been surprised, when Sam’s ‘incantation’ turned out to be two repeated phrases. Somehow, he’d expected a complicated poem or verse. He should have known better than that. Exorcisms worked not because of the words, but because of the force behind them, and often simpler words were better. There was no reason magic shouldn’t have been the same. 

“Close the door,” he says again, and this time he focuses on the counter-ritual, collecting that sense for the magic into his mind as well. It’s calmer. Soothing. Less aggressive than the blood magic at the center, not nearly so violent. But weak. There’s potential for power, a way to circulate it and channel it, but it’s powerless in its own right. 

He takes a deep breath, gathers his focus and everything he knows about his ill-gained magic And he  _ pushes,  _ trying to force his will and his power into the white circle.

His arm flares immediately as the violet flames burst in a frenzied panic. His eyes are closed, but he can feel the intense heat on his face, and he knows his arm has literally gone up in tongues of flame as well. He can smell charred cloth, and his friends yelp in surprise, and the crystal beneath his fingers grows uncomfortably hot. 

_ Won’t!  _ The magic shrieks.  _ Won’t! Wrong! Wrong! Not mine! Not mine! NOT MINE!  _

Shiro grits his teeth. Physically, he keeps himself repeating the same incantation over and over, by rote, just as he’d trained in exorcisms for years with the Covenant. But mentally, he sinks deeper, away from the external distractions, the heat on his face, the mutterings from his friends, down and down into his own mind.

The voice of the flames is louder, then. Or, louder isn’t the right word—it’s all in his head—but its power reverberates around him, loud and angry and resentful and terrified. He pushes his will against it again, trying to force it to do as he commands, to infuse the magic and  _ fight.  _ But it screams at him again— _ NOT MINE! NOT MINE! NOT MINE!— _ and resists, and far away the flames flare higher still.

_ You have to!  _ He insists, pushing with his will, emphasizing with his emotions in the rudimentary way he ‘talks’ to the magic.  _ We both have to!  _

But the magic only argues back, frantic and insistent,  _ Not mine! Not mine! Not mine!  _

_ You’re a part of me now,  _ Shiro snaps.  _ Stop fighting me. That’s an order!  _

_ Not mine!  _ The magic shrieks.  _ Not mine! Wrong, wrong, wrong! Won’t!  _

Shiro snarls in his own head in frustration. This isn’t  _ working.  _ It has to work! It  _ has  _ to! Everything is relying on him.  _ Everyone  _ in the world  _ depends  _ on him to get this right. He has to get control of this magic. 

He concentrates harder still. On the magic he can feel all around him, yes, feeling its ebb and flow, the rushing torrent of vile energy, the simmering potential in the counter-ritual. But he focuses on  _ his  _ magic, too, feeling the heat and crackle of energy, the raw potential to destroy or purify, the foreign power that comes with it.  _ Feel what it feels like,  _ Sam had said, and Shiro goes deeper and deeper still, and he  _ tries.  _

The magic balks at his closeness, at his mental push, and flares angrily, warningly. This deep in his own mind, this focused on the flow of energy around him, Shiro can feel that heat and pressure intensely. It could burn him alive from the inside out, if it chose to. Incinerate his mind, or his body, if used improperly, if it isn’t controlled. Or save the world, if it is. 

He pushes again. The flames push back, angry and resentful, and it hurts inside at a primal, ethereal level. Shiro is risking  _ everything,  _ trying to get the magic under his command. 

And it’s still not  _ working.  _

_ Please,  _ he begs, desperate.  _ Please. We have to do this. The world will end if we don’t do this. You have to  _ obey  _ me. Please.  _

And the magic...hesitates.

And Shiro realizes, for the first time since he’s come by this ill-gotten magic, that it  _ understood  _ him. Really understood him. This wasn’t rudimentary communication through emotion or distress. His mind is so focused on the magic around him, on that power and its ebb and flow, that for the first time, he’d understood how to  _ think  _ like it, to feel it, to communicate with it. 

And the sorcerer’s flames had  _ heard  _ him.

Not in a traditional sense. It’s not sentient. It’s a force of energy, an expression of the natural force of pure heat, and it doesn’t have thoughts or willful desires like a living being does. But it’s magic, it understands the nature of things in its own way, and it knows what’s supposed to be and what isn’t, and it finally  _ heard  _ him.

_ Not mine,  _ it insists, but this time it’s more cautious, tired. Afraid. And for the first time, Shiro can hear so many layers in that one, single rebuttal, and he understands what the flames have been saying from the beginning.  _ You are not my sorcerer. You are unnatural. We are unnatural together. This is not the way of things. I serve the one I was born to. I have been stolen. I have been suppressed. I have been forced to submit. This is not what I am. This is not what I will do.  _

And Shiro understands, in a moment of perfect, crystal clarity, why the magic has never bent to his will.

Because it really  _ isn’t  _ his. It belongs to another—another that it loves dearly, in its own way, another that it’s linked to intrinsically, another that it is a  _ part  _ of. He’s always known that logically, but it’s another thing entirely to  _ feel  _ that, to  _ understand  _ what it means. 

It’s been ripped away, impossibly, unnaturally, stolen and stored and manipulated. It’s a thing of pure power, and yet it’s powerless, forced to submit, trapped eternally, contained and wrenched and commanded against its will to do another’s bidding. It’s just as much a prisoner as Shiro had been. 

It has never been respected, never listened to, since being torn from the one it was born with. It isn’t the way of the flames to be like this. Severed. Commanded. Suppressed. Disrespected. Made to do things that are vile and wrong, against its will, against its nature, things the one it was born to never asked of it. 

It didn’t care who did the ordering, because they  _ weren’t  _ of the flame. It couldn’t tell the difference between minds that didn’t belong to it. Haggar, her failed experiments, Shiro—as far as the magic is concerned, they’re  _ all  _ culpable,  _ all  _ cruel,  _ all  _ responsible for its imprisonment. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ he tells the flames. 

The magic pauses. The towering tongues of fire calm, just a fraction. It’s  _ listening.  _

_ I’m sorry,  _ Shiro repeats again, and he knows the flames can  _ feel  _ his sincerity, in the language of magic he finally understands, in his mind, in his heart.  _ This isn’t the way. I shouldn’t  _ order  _ you to obey me. You have no reason to. I’m not yours.  _

_ Yes,  _ the magic agrees, cautiously.

_ I respect that,  _ Shiro says.  _ And I understand now. I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you before.  _

_ Doesn’t speak,  _ the magic agrees again.  _ Has no force of its own.  _ It doesn’t quite emote  _ sorrow,  _ but Shiro swears it understands that he has no natural magic, and it almost pities him for his emptiness. It can’t comprehend an existence where a person is born without a force that’s intrinsically a part of it.

_ Yes,  _ Shiro says.  _ It’s difficult for me. I know you aren’t mine. I don’t ever expect you to be.  _ He hesitates.  _ But I need your help. Please.  _

Caution. Hesitation.  _ Not mine.  _

_ I understand,  _ Shiro says.  _ And I didn’t want this either. I never wanted to imprison you. It’s not fair that you were taken away from your own sorcerer by  _ her,  _ or bound to me. I don’t know who your original sorcerer was, or if they’re still alive. But if we ever find them, if there’s a way to give you back, I will. I’ll swear my life on that.  _

Elation. The flames burn higher, but it’s  _ warm,  _ almost comfortable, without painful intensity. It can sense his sincerity. It knows he means it.  _ Yes. Mine. Want mine. Want mine.  _

_ I promise,  _ Shiro says.  _ But tonight, I need your help. Please. I  _ need  _ to stop this spell.  _

_ Won’t,  _ the magic insists, and the warmth becomes intense again, almost burning. The flames loathe the unnatural magic in the rituals, and want no part of it.  _ Wrong! Won’t!  _

_ I know it’s wrong,  _ Shiro says.  _ I know it’s not the way things are supposed to be, like you. I want to stop it. If we stop it, we can save lives.  _ Billions  _ of lives. Maybe even the life of your sorcerer, if they’re still living. But if this spell finishes, everyone will die. Me. My friends. Everyone in the city. Everyone in the  _ world.  _ I don’t know what happens to you if I die, but I don’t think it will be good either.  _

The magic is hesitant. Uneasy. Shiro doesn’t  _ belong  _ to it. It doesn’t want to be beholden to  _ not mine.  _ Doesn’t wish to be enslaved against its will, for the will of others. Doesn’t want to touch that blood magic, so wrong to it, so unnatural, so much the antithesis of what it  _ is. _

_ Please,  _ he begs, and he truly is desperate now.  _ People will die. My friends will die. I’m not asking you to trust me forever. I’m not asking you to obey me. I’m asking you to work  _ with  _ me. Just once. Just trust me  _ once.  _ Please.  _

The roaring flames in his mind grow shorter, quieter, reducing to embers that wink out in his mind. The magic goes still, retreating away from him, and Shiro feels inexplicably cold.

His heart sinks.  _ Damn it. I was so close. I— _

Warmth. It blossoms, not in his arm as he’s become so accustomed to, but in his chest. The heat grows inside him, but it’s comforting, welcome, melting away the icy coldness of fear and failure in the depths of his soul and mind. Like a comfortable campfire on a summer evening, or a patch of sunlight on a cool autumn day. And yet, despite the warmth, there’s so much power and strength there, burning rapidly at the core of himself, that he’s suddenly and inexplicably aware of.

_ I will do this thing,  _ the magic whispers to him, reverberating in the energy inside of him, in his heart, in his mind.  _ I will work with you this once.  _

_ Thank you,  _ Shiro whispers back.

The magic flares inside of him.  _ For now, MINE. Until true mine, MINE.  _

_ I’ll accept that,  _ he thinks back. 

And

They

_ Bond.  _

“Shiro!”

His eyes snap open, and he returns to himself in a rush, awareness of the real world around him flooding back to his senses. To his surprise, it’s much easier to  _ feel  _ the magic all around him now. It doesn’t take nearly so much intense focus, with the flames burning at his core, willingly a part of him. It comes naturally, now that he and the magic aren’t fighting each other at every turn, and instead work in symbiosis. 

“Shiro! Are you okay?”

“Oh, Athena,  _ Shiro!”  _

Shiro blinks. His friends, he realizes, are gathered around him, frantic expressions on their faces. Keith looks ready to dive for him, but Pidge and Matt hold him back, long-fingered hands wrapped around his arms. Lance, Hunk, and Allura all look panicked.

A moment later, he realizes why. He’s on fire— _ literally  _ on fire, his whole body ablaze with violet flames, not just his arm. And yet it doesn’t  _ hurt,  _ this time. Before, if the flames touched any part of him that wasn’t carved with runes, it would burn like ordinary fire. His clothes and hair would be singed, and his skin would turn a raw red. 

But now it doesn’t hurt at all. Every part of him is on fire, even the parts of him  _ not  _ binding the magic. And yet, while tongues of violet flame lick over his arms, legs, torso and head, it feels comfortably warm and not at all painful. He’s  _ aware  _ of the heat, but it doesn’t eat at him. Even his clothing is spared from burning. 

“I’m fine,” he says, holding up a burning hand to reassure them. 

“You’re  _ on fire,”  _ Lance says incredulously. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Shiro says. “I promise. The magic and I...we finally reached an understanding.”

_ Mine,  _ the magic murmurs. He can hear it in his head, and in the way the flames crackle and pop near his ears, in the way it spits purple embers into the air.  _ Mine. Never hurt mine.  _

Sam smiles. “I knew you could do it, son,” he says fondly. 

“Thanks for believing in me,” Shiro says. “But I’ve only learned how to work  _ with  _ it. I still need to do the job I came for.” He nods to the others. “I promise I’m okay. Keep an eye on those tunnels.”

“There’s noises, coming farther down,” Keith warns, as Pidge and Matt finally let go of him. “They’re going to be here soon.”

“Then we’ll just have to get to work,” Shiro says, closing his eyes and settling his right arm over the crystal in front of him again. Like his clothes and gear, it doesn’t burn if he doesn’t will it to. “I’m trying again.”

_ Together,  _ the magic whispers.  _ Together.  _

_ Yes,  _ Shiro agrees. 

“Reverse the flow,” Shiro says out loud, beginning the incantation once again. This time, focus is so easy, because he can already feel the magic all around him and in him, all the energy and potential everything in the room has. It’s like hearing phrases in another language all his life, and then inexplicably waking up and knowing what they mean. The flames whisper the translations in his head almost the moment he senses the energies, and everything makes so much more sense than it did before. 

“Close the door,” he says, and he focuses his  _ will  _ on the magic around them, on the counter-ritual symbols and the crystal beneath his hand. This time, when he pushes mentally, the flames don’t push back. They  _ flow,  _ streaming down the lines Sam and Matt and Pidge had set up, invigorating them with energy. The flames setting his whole body alight gradually die down and vanish as that energy shifts focus to the ritual.

“Reverse the flow,” Shiro says, focusing on the spell. He is will and the flames are power, and together between the two of them they create something neither of them could alone. He settles in his mind his desire to protect, to defend, to prevent the magic in that terrible blood ritual from doing what it’s doing. 

He focuses on all the things in the world he wants to save—his friends, standing beside him. The volunteers, risking their lives to help him this day. The innocent cryptids in the city, and the humans unaware of the danger under their feet. The millions upon millions of lives not even aware of the terrible battle he’s fighting at this very moment for their sakes. Even his family and old friends, with the Covenant, because they will  _ never  _ have the chance to change if they are never given the chance to survive. He holds all of them in his mind, and he refuses to lose them, and that determination, that strength, gives him power and focus for the spell.

“Close the door,” he says, and the others gasp around him. He’s aware without needing to open his eyes that the lines of white paint have all burst into violet flames, creating a burning circle surrounding the terrible ritual. His magic, the magic that has claimed him, rushes faster through the counter-ritual, working his strength into the symbols and the crystals. It knows what to do in a way Shiro doesn’t, and he feeds it his strength, and it empowers their spell. The energy around him starts to warp, as Sam’s counter-ritual gains strength, and suddenly it’s no mere breath of air against a hurricane—it’s a storm in its own right, small yet but steadily growing.

“Reverse the flow.” And now comes the hardest part of all—hooking into that evil ritual, and siphoning its power away. It’s too powerful to merely  _ stop,  _ at this point. That rushing torrent of energy funnelling into the unknown is too much to cut off, not when Haggar has been building it for years. But draining some of the magic away, dispersing it harmlessly after purifying it,  _ that  _ could be done. It would be difficult, but if Shiro could release some of the pressure, dismantle it piece by piece, they could just maybe stop it.

“Close the door.” The magic is hesitant, now, afraid to mingle with that vile energy contained in Haggar’s ritual. It’s unnatural and wrong,  _ not  _ the way of the world or of nature, and the magic is loathe to touch it, just as it has been since the day Shiro received it. But Shiro coaxes gently, determinedly, and the magic trusts him and lends him its power, and  _ together  _ they reach for that magic and siphon it. They use the magic of the terrible ritual to power their own, running the energy through their counter symbols, purifying it and dispersing it. 

And it’s  _ working.  _ Slowly but surely, it’s working. The weight of the ritual is vast and its power is enormous, but that power begins to turn on itself as Shiro coaxes away the energy with sheer force of will and the power of the flames. The torrent of energy rushing into the unknown is still enormous, but bit by bit Shiro and his magic siphon streams of it away, and the vast pressure and buildup of the blood ritual begins to reduce. 

He’s doing it.  _ They  _ are doing it, him and the flames, achieving as a unit what both of them feared to do alone. 

_ More will,  _ the magic whispers to him, stronger now, less uneasy at the presence of the unnatural blood magic now that it knows Shiro has the necessary strength to handle it.  _ More will, and more power. Stronger. Better. Burn away the corruption.  _

Shiro nods, and deepens his focus, sinking deeper into the meditative state needed to build up on that willpower, and—

“Look out!”

And with an almighty roar, the floor trembles and his forces scream as something smashes its way into the room.

Shiro’s concentration wavers, and his eyes snap open again. He keeps his hand on the crystal before him, keeps part of his focus on the magic and the spell and the dancing violet flames circling the awful ritual in front of him. It’s not more willpower, not like the magic wanted, but at least he doesn’t break the counter ritual entirely. 

More screams come from his left, and he twists to look over his shoulder. A force of Galra cultists and werelions has overrun the defenses at the doorway there, smashing through like a battering ram with sheer force of numbers. As Shiro watches, Leifsdottir leaps upon one of the cultists in her lion form, knocking the human to the ground and cracking his head against the stone. It should have been enough to knock him out, but the man jerks spasmodically to his feet, stumbling and twitching. His eyes are wide and blank, unseeing, and he doesn’t seem to notice the bloody crack in his skull as he moves.

More cultists and werelions force their way through, undaunted by attacks or injuries. They don’t seem to feel pain, or notice the extent of their injuries. One transformed werelion walks on an obviously fractured leg with no hint of pain, and a cultist drags himself forward despite awful puncture marks and claw wounds scoring his abdomen. They don’t feel anything, and they don’t stop shoving their way through the door and leaping upon Shiro’s forces, rapidly overwhelming them despite a dozen injuries that should have already incapaciated them. 

Shiro’s stomach ices over, and not even the warmth of the flames can fix him. The violet fire in a ring around the blood ritual crackles higher, and in his head, the magic begins to shriek in a panic once more, just like before.  _ Won’t! Won’t! Won’t!  _

“She’s coming,” Shiro whispers. 

And then she’s  _ there.  _

The johrlac steps through the doorway calmly, unhurriedly, surrounded by a dozen of her forces. They circle her completely, stumbling and bleeding, dragging injured limbs and heedless of their pain, eyes blank. One of Griffin’s werelions tries to leap at her, and one of her guards steps willingly into the path of the attack, not even screaming as he goes down under enormous lion claws. Haggar is indifferent to the death of one of her drones, and another almost immediately fills the space of the fallen, watching her with something akin to reverence. 

The moment Shiro sees her, his focus dies. The torrent of magic slows, and the blood ritual begins to build itself once again, no longer impeded by Sam’s counter spell. The sorcerer’s flames burn in Shiro’s head, furious and terrified at the sight of her, echoing his own thoughts.

_ Her.  _ It’s her. It’s  _ her.  _ She’s here and it’s  _ too late,  _ she’ll dig in his head, crack his mind open and drain away the fragments, scatter them to the winds until there’s nothing left of him. His husk will do exactly as she’d promised, he’ll turn on his friends, cut them down in mid battle to fuel the last of the ritual and _ — _

_ No. No! Calm down,  _ he instructs himself frantically.  _ You have the anti-telepathy charm. You were the first one to get it. She  _ can’t  _ get into your head. Never again.  _ His left hand curls in a fist over his chest, where the copper charm sits against his skin, under his clothes. 

But it’s hard to believe he could be safe, watching her stride through the battle as easily as if she was taking a Sunday stroll, calmly lifting her strange cultist robes to keep them from dragging in blood and corpses. Around her, her servants take lethal hits for her and drop to the stone, only to be replaced by more. Her eyes, her expression—everything about her is cold, uncaring, indifferent. Lives are taken by the dozens and she doesn’t  _ care.  _

Those same indifferent, cold eyes had regarded him as nothing more than an experimental subject. That same mind had torn him apart on the inside, broken half a dozen laws of nature, nearly destroyed himself  _ and  _ the flames just for a chance at  _ evolution.  _

If anyone here was ever a monster, it was her. 

Her eyes scan the battle as she approaches the ritual. Her minions, deep in the throes of her mental influence, hurl themselves suicidally at Shiro’s forces to keep them at bay, heedless of the risk to their own lives. It lets her travel unhindered, unconcerned with the events around her. She seems more concerned with her ritual in the center of the room.

But her expression changes when her eyes meet Shiro’s. She freezes for one long moment, staring at him in confusion. Belatedly, it occurs to Shiro that she probably doesn’t recognize him. No one knows much about johrlac, but they didn’t have much physical variation between members of the species, and it was thought they recognized minds more than faces. Since he’s wearing a charm to protect against mental influence, she probably can’t sense him the same way as before.

But his magic flares high in fury and fear as her gaze sets upon him, and even if she doesn’t know him by sight, she  _ definitely  _ knows what she did to him. Her eyes narrow, and a moment later she snarls,  _ “You.”  _

_ Wrong!  _ The magic shrieks.  _ Wrong, wrong, wrong!  _ It doesn’t have a way to express itself in words, but Shiro gets impressions of confines and darkness and snuffed flames, and it’s enough for Shiro to understand. After all, he’d been her prisoner too.

“You should be worse than dead,” she snaps. “You were broken. Your mind was  _ gone.  _ I felt it. Humans don’t come back from that.”

“I did,” Shiro says, and despite his fear of her, despite the fact that he can feel himself trembling inside, feel the magic howling in terror and anger in his head, his voice comes out strong. She can’t hear his thoughts anymore. She can’t know how he really feels. “And I made a friend along the way.” 

The flames, sensing their cue, flare high along his arm and along the white paint of the counter-ritual, popping and snapping brilliant violet sparks.

She turns to watch the flames, then back to him. “You  _ dare  _ undo my work?” she snarls.  _ “I  _ gave you that strength. I helped you  _ evolve. _ And this is how you repay me?”

Shiro has nothing to say to that, and only glares at her coldly. 

She advances, and around Shiro his friends tense, watching her and her ring of mindless drone shields. “You were supposed to be  _ my  _ key,” she snarls angrily. “You were supposed to help  _ me  _ open the way. It could have been your greatest purpose.” 

“I will  _ never  _ help you destroy this world,” Shiro snaps back at her, still seated on the floor, hand pressed to the ritual and the crystal. “No matter what you did to me against my will.”

“Um, should we maybe be stopping her?” Hunk asks frantically. “She’s getting awful close, and those guys around her look kind of crazy?”

“They’re being influenced by her powers,” Shiro says. “Since she can’t mind-control us, she’s making meat-shields out of her own followers.” 

“That is vile,” Allura snaps, glaring across at Haggar with utmost revulsion. “Even if those people chose to follow her willingly, this is not how one leads.”

“She doesn’t care,” Matt says bitterly. “They’re just throw-away lives to her.”

“Well, I don’t like them getting that close,” Hunk says. “I’m cutting loose.” And he whips his glasses free.

Several of Haggar’s drone guards stagger and collapse, if they were unfortunate enough to meet Hunk’s gorgon gaze. Their places aren’t refilled. Griffin’s defenses fight a hard battle behind them, against wild opponents heedless of pain or death, but they have managed to cut off Haggar from her supply of handy mindless slaves. 

But Haggar is no fool, and even if gazes and faces don’t mean much to her, she’s obviously smart enough to recognize a gorgon and what unprotected eye contact means. Her eyes glow, and the rest of her shields close their eyes, neatly negating the effects of Hunk’s attack.

“Take’em down!” Lance hollers, leaping forward. “Keep’em off Shiro!” His whole body warps mid-jump from bipedal humanoid form to quadrupedal spiny dog, and with a snarl he leaps on the closest of Haggar’s meat shields, digging in claws and teeth. 

The others need no further invitation. Hunk bodily slams into the next closest mindless drone, and several of his snakes snap and strike, sinking fangs deep into rapidly petrifying flesh. Coran takes aim at a few of the farther cultists with his rifle, bringing down two with shockingly expert precision. Sam, Matt and Pidge fall upon a pair unfortunate enough to get too close to Shiro, and while the mindless drones can’t feel fear from the bogeyman, they can have the air choked out of their lungs. Even Allura gets a crack at one with her staff, knocking him unconscious with a sharp strike to the skull and rendering Haggar’s mind control useless.

Keith heads straight for Haggar herself. The mindless cultist drones swerve to intercept him, broken bodies shockingly fast when whipped relentlessly by a cruel mental taskmaster. But Keith is a vampire, and his natural agility and speed allows him to duck, dodge, and twist between them, making expert strikes with his blades to bring them down. His gleaming red eyes remain focused unerringly on his goal.

“You’re all fools,” Haggar says coldly. “Aiding humans. You’ve evolved to be better than them. Why spare them? They care nothing for you.”

“This isn’t human versus cryptid,” Allura counters. “You’ve taken lives of all kinds for your disgusting ritual. And you will kill  _ everyone  _ on the planet for your own selfish gain.”

“What she said,” Hunk agrees, as he whirls to grab another of the mind controlled cultists, allowing his snakes to strike.

Haggar’s lip curls in obvious disgust. She steps close enough to the ritual, a quarter of the way around the circle from Shiro, that she could almost reach out and touch the violet flames. The fire flares brightly, warningly,  _ daring  _ her to try. She’ll be burned to a crisp the moment she gets too close.

But she doesn’t touch the flames. Instead, she lifts a hand, reaching in the direction of her own blood ritual and the blood and bodies while keeping her distance from the fire. Her eyes glow. And she intones, “Aid me, for the completion of the bargain.”

And for the first time, in that hurricane of vile magic, in that torrent of energy flooding off into the unknown—something comes back, from the other side. 

Shiro can feel it slithering up the length of the blood magic, like something crawling up from the depths of a whirlpool. Just the tiniest touch of it makes him want to throw up, or maybe start weeping. If the blood magic had been terrible, this was unimaginably cruel, dark, and evil. It feels like decay, like the  _ end  _ of things, the absolute cessation of potential. 

_ Wrong,  _ his own flames wail.  _ Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Absence! Void! Broken! Wrong!  _ The violet fires flare brightly, thrashing and panicked, and it takes everything Shiro has to reign them in and keep them from going out of control, burning everything to the ground.

That strange force trickles out of the center of the blood ritual, just a few drops—but a few drops is more than there ever should have been in their world. It envelops Haggar, and for just a moment Shiro swears she drips with shadow, and with sheer  _ malevolence  _ that was startling familiar. 

_ The force that possessed Lotor,  _ Shiro realizes, with a numb sort of horror.  _ This is how she did it. This is what she used.  _

It only takes her bare seconds, to call for the strange magic, to be infused with it. Only bare seconds, broken down into an eternity for Shiro and his newfound magic sense. But he can feel how much stronger she is, even with her telepathic powers negated. 

He can feel it—and no one else has any idea. 

“Keith!” Shiro yells, panicked. “Stop now!”

But it’s too late. Keith is already ducking around the last of her mind controlled cultists, hurtling for her with preternatural vampiric speed. Shiro’s human eyes can’t track him. Haggar  _ should  _ have been physically inferior, as a johrlac blocked by telepathy counter-charms. Johrlacs were ambush predators. Remove their mind control, and they were physically weak and helpless. Shiro had told Keith that himself.

But she moves fast. Unnaturally fast, fueled by whatever terrible substance she had called forth from the other side. Shiro can’t track her movements, or Keith’s; everything is a blur to his pathetic human eyes. But he does see dark red blood and a strange clear liquid splatter the stones, and one of Keith’s daggers clatters to the ground, before the two of them draw apart. 

There’s a deep gash in Haggar’s face, dribbling clear fluid, and her robes are sliced and growing wet on her arm. Keith had managed to hit her, even with whatever that evil power was flowing through her. 

But Keith had definitely come out the worse of their exchange. He staggers away, red eyes wide with pain, clutching at a deep red wound in his stomach that’s already beginning to ooze over his fingers. Haggar stares at him coldly, clutching a thick ritual dagger, dripping with vampire blood.

“Keith!” Shiro hollers, and around him he hears the echoes of others calling out alongside him. He staggers to his feet in horror, breaking away from the counter-ritual, already reaching for a weapon to try and help. The flames grow weaker without him to fuel it, the wall of ritual fire growing shorter. “No!”

Haggar’s eyes glow with victory as Keith staggers away from her. He tries to raise his remaining dagger defensively, baring his fangs warningly at her and her remaining few drones as she steps closer. But his legs give out a moment later, and he collapses onto his side, dropping his last weapon. He curls up in a ball with both hands clutched to his stomach, defenseless. Rivulets of blood are already beginning to slither through his fingers and over the stone floor as he tries to staunch the bleeding. 

Shiro flings a dagger with his left hand before he even realizes he’s holding one, snapping, “Don’t touch him!” Next to him, Coran takes two shots at Haggar at almost the same moment with a furious snarl. But she easily steps aside from the bullets and blades with her enhanced strength and speed, appearing to almost teleport from sheer agility. 

Hunk is next, trying to get close enough to make eye contact while putting his body between her and the fallen Keith. Unfortunately, she’s smart enough not to look him in the eye, or to get close enough to allow his snakes to strike.

Lance darts in with a snarl, spines bristling. Haggar whirls to face him, whipping out with the bloodied dagger, sending drops of blood scattering over the floor and hissing in the flames. At the last moment, Lance ducks aside, digging in his claws and skidding on the stone as he does an abrupt turn. He dashes past Keith, snatches the back of Keith’s jacket in his doglike jaws, and drags him back towards the safety of Shiro’s team, leaving thick trails of dark red blood in their wake.

Behind them, the ritual magic flares.

“Nice thinking, Lance!” Shiro says, relieved. Keith looks bad, still clutching at his stomach and writhing in pain as Lance drags him to the Holts, who immediately try to help with triage. An alarming amount of dark vampire blood stains the ground already. Even for Keith’s enhanced vampire endurance and survivability, the wound could be fatal. But if Allura can just look at him for a second, he might be ok. 

God,  _ please  _ let him be okay. Shiro will never forgive himself if any of his friends die in this assault because  _ he  _ hadn’t been prepared enough for Haggar.

_ Haggar.  _ What was that strange power she’d summoned? Only he seems able to sense it. Could he negate it? Keep her distracted with his flames long enough for Hunk to get a bite in? 

He consults with the flames, but they’re frantic now, whirling and howling in his head like a firestorm.  _ Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Too late, too late, too powerful! It builds! It builds!  _

Behind him, the ritual magic flares again, power building in a crescendo. It  _ thuds,  _ like a massive, terrible heartbeat, swelling grotesquely. Again. Again.

And too late, Shiro spots the glistening drops of Keith’s blood, flung from Haggar’s knife, on the edges of the blood ritual inside the flames. Too late, he realizes just how much vampire blood stains the ground around them, so close to that terrible working of Haggar’s.

_ Don’t spill blood near the ritual,  _ Sam had warned them all. 

_ Oh, no.  _

Haggar knows the significance of it too, judging from her coldly triumphant look. “There’s no need to wait further, it seems,” she says. “It would have been smoother, giving the magic a week to stabilize itself. But I will  _ not  _ be denied my gift, for the price I paid. I  _ will  _ go home.” 

And she reaches out, snatching the last of her mindless drones. The man comes willingly, and stands, empty and obedient, as she calmly slits his throat from ear to ear. She dips her fingers in his gushing blood, and with shocking speed, scrawls symbols onto his robes with his own life fluids. Before Shiro can stop her, she shoves the final sacrifice through the violet flamewall to the ritual beyond. 

_ Stop her!  _ Shiro thinks, frantic, whirling to slam his right hand down on the crystal and the counter-ritual paint wards.  _ Stop her now!  _

And the magic tries, equally frantic, wild and primal with the force of sheer heat against the unnatural force of something from another world. The flames leap to try and consume the body, burn it to ashes before it hits the ground, incinerate the terrible symbols. 

But it’s not fast enough.  _ Shiro  _ isn’t fast enough. The last body hits the ground inside that bloody ritual, and the power of that evil blood magic  _ thuds  _ again, building and swelling grotesquely as it finally reaches its tipping point. 

_ Stop it!  _ Shiro screams in his head, to himself, to the magic, to anyone listening.  _ Stop it, stop it, stop it now!  _

And the magic tries. It  _ tries.  _ It takes his willpower, fueled by pure terror, and forces it into the counter ritual. The violet flamewall flares to nearly twenty feet high, casting waves of heat so intense even his friends step back.  _ Burn the corruption!  _ It shrieks in his head, over and over.  _ Burn it! Burn it! Burn it to ash!  _

But it’s not enough. For all that power, it isn’t enough. Not against a force like  _ that.  _

And the air—no, the very fabric of the universe itself—shreds apart as the magic builds to its apex, and punctures a hole clear through to another world. 

It splits apart like a popped seam, leaving a six-foot tear hovering in the air over the nineteen murdered bodies. Shreds of energy that Shiro feels more than sees hang raggedly from the edges of the gash in the world, like torn threads. Even as he watches they begin to unravel further, and the gash grows wider and wider still. And on the other side of the hole in the air is a steadily growing darkness, so black the human eye can’t penetrate it.

_ No. No. No!  _

The whole room falls still. Sounds of battle around them, Griffin’s defenses against broken-minded drones, fall silent as the combat grinds to a halt from shock. Shiro’s friends gape in open-mouthed horror at the hole in the world. Hunk yammers nonsensically in outright panic, Lance cowers in his chupacabra form, and Sam stares in disbelief and whispers, “What have we done?” Even Keith, gasping for breath and steadied by Pidge and Matt while Allura attempts to heal him, has enough strength left to spare on awe-struck shock. 

_ Too late,  _ Shiro thinks, horrified, watching the gash grow steadily wider.  _ After all this, we were too late.  _

_ Not yet!  _ His magic whispers back. It’s frantic, and terrified in its own way. But more than that, it’s disgusted by the wound cut into the air in front of them. This isn’t the natural order of things. Flames burn, ice freezes, gravity exerts its force, but it is all a part of the  _ world.  _ This is not the world. The world is broken, and the flames inherently reject it.  _ Not yet. Not yet! Unbalanced! Fight! Will! Burn away the corruption! _

Shiro is startled by the flames’ willingness to keep fighting now, when it looks so hopeless. But not enough to hesitate. The magic says  _ fight,  _ and the magic hasn’t guided him wrong yet, not in this. They’ve agreed to work  _ together.  _ If it’s still willing to try, he won’t give up until his dying breath, either.

So he digs his fingers into the counter ritual lines and the crystal atop them, and puts  _ everything  _ he has into resisting Haggar’s spell. 

The blood magic is a cacophony, a wild storm at its worst, and now the magic is no longer building—it’s destroying. Tearing away at the world, beating down the layers between reality, smashing through the bonds in another world, calling for something  _ beyond,  _ funnelling power and magic to it. It’s powerful, nearly uncontrollable, a force at its crescendo set loose upon the world. 

But it isn’t invincible. The magic had called it  _ unbalanced,  _ and even Haggar admitted the ritual should have had an extra week to stabilize. It isn’t as perfect as it could have been. 

So Shiro puts  _ everything  _ he has into their counter ritual. All of his fear, his panic, his shame and disappointment at letting the world down. All of his determination, his stubbornness, his  _ refusal  _ to let it end like this. All of his devotion, to his friends that have become his family, to his personal mission for redemption, to doing everything he can to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

He pours it all into that counterspell, and it’s fuel for his flames. The violet fires roar higher, crackling and snapping, burning with a furious intensity. The magic sings in his ears, not-quite-music, the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

And the hole in the world stops growing.

It doesn’t shrink. The blood ritual is too powerful, an unchecked storm that can’t be reduced until it’s worn itself down. But it doesn’t grow, either. The counter-ritual, and Shiro’s magic, keeps it negated. 

But it’s difficult to manage. Already, sweat drips down Shiro’s forehead from the stress of maintaining so much will and focus. There’s so much magic literally at his fingertips,  _ too  _ much magic at his fingertips, and he’s not skilled enough to maintain it all. His muscles start to tremble, his breath grows hoarse, and despite the twenty-foot wall of flame in front of him, he’s starting to grow cold inside. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.

And then Haggar steps forward, just at the edge of the wall of flames. She raises her hands, and with a cold smile, she speaks. “Enter at last. Take your price. Conclude our bargain!”

And on the other side of the hole in the world, Shiro swears he sees a pair of glowing, violet eyes in that impenetrable darkness. 

The pressure against his own magic grows stronger. From the hole in the air, that same strange energy of sheer absence, of the end of all potentials, begins to drift forth. The void presence grows stronger, and with it comes a cruel aura of pure malevolence. Something is coming—forcing itself through the bonds of one world, reaching for the tear in another.

_ Everyone  _ can sense it, from the way Hunk and Lance cower, or the way Sam drops to his knees with a terrified expression on his face. Allura’s wings sag to the floor, their normally brilliant luster dulled, and Coran lowers his weapon, looking dazed. Matt and Pidge curl close to each other like frightened puppies, shivering over Keith’s prone form, and with a soft moan Keith’s eyes flutter and he slips into unconsciousness. 

But for Shiro, and his newly attained magic sense, the arrival of that void presence is absolutely sickening. It chokes in his nose and mouth, crawls beneath his skin, stinks in his nose like decay and mold. It’s the very essence of destruction and the end of all things, the antithesis of natural order and life and existence itself, and everything about it is repulsive. 

His flames sputter against the assault of that new force. The void presence grows stronger every second, and his magic is battered by it, like a candle in violent winds.  _ Wrong,  _ the flames wail in his head.  _ Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!  _

_ Keep fighting,  _ Shiro says. He doesn’t know if he’s ordering or begging. 

_ Strong,  _ the magic says, but it tries anyway. It flares again, along the counter-ritual, clawing at the blood magic, struggling to burn away its power. If it was only the blood ritual, it might have been successful. But the void presence on the other side pushes, and smothers the flames, and ever so slowly, the tear in the world starts to grow wider again. 

It’s not enough. Shiro is doing everything he can to make it difficult for  _ whatever  _ is on the other side. But it’s like pressing himself against a door to try and hold it closed, with a troll on the other side trying to force it open. He might have leverage, but the sheer brute strength of his opponent will eventually wear him down.

_ The portal,  _ the magic gestures, whispering and weak.  _ Touch the portal. Close the portal. The portal. The portal. The portal.  _

The magic knows  _ something.  _ Shiro is willing to try anything. But if he lets go of the counter-ritual circle now, then  _ nothing  _ will be holding that void presence from wrenching the way fully open. 

He glances desperately at Sam, the only magic expert they have. “I need to get to the portal,” he gasps. All he’s been doing is sitting, and yet he feels like he’s run a mile, and speech is difficult. “But I can’t let go. What do I—”

Sam blinks at him, but before he can so much as answer, movement blurs Shiro’s vision. To his surprise,  _ Allura  _ appears next to him. Before he can so much as shout a word of warning, she slams her hands down into violet flames, over the white paint of the counter ritual. 

_ Don’t burn her!  _ Shiro hastily orders his magic. It complies, and Allura doesn’t go up in flames. 

But she does glow. Her caladrius wings burst with brilliant white light, nearly too intense to look at, as with an expression of intense concentration and determination, Allura pours her magic into the ritual. Her  _ healing  _ magic.

It isn’t made for this—for spellcraft and rituals and manipulating the forces of the world. Caladrii aren’t sorcerers, they’re healers. It obviously hurts Allura, to be so close to so much death, so much vile energy, so near to that terrible void presence. Even without his own flames eating away at her arms, her fingers still burn, and involuntary tears of pain and sheer disgust drip down her face. 

But amazingly, unbelievably, her last-ditch gambit  _ works.  _ Shiro can feel her pure healing energy, a thing of sheer vitality and rejuvenation and existence, infusing the counter-ritual. There’s nothing living for her to heal, but her own form of magic is nearly the exact opposite of the thing of decay and absence trying to force its way through the hole in the world, the perfect counter to preventing its entry. And so the counter-ritual soaks it up and uses it. 

And Allura, wings flaring brilliantly like a beacon, keeps the gash in the world from opening wider.

“Miss!” Coran gasps, mouth agape. “What are you doing? I’ve never seen anything like this before...from you  _ or  _ your father!”

“I don’t know,” she gasps, gritting her teeth as a wave of that foul presence washes over them again. “But hurry, Shiro. I don’t know how long I can do this.”

“Right.” Shiro cautiously takes his hand away from the focusing crystal, and his contact with the counter-ritual breaks. The flamewall shimmers once and snuffs out, as the magic returns to his arm. Allura’s shoulders bow under the strain of holding the tear in the world by herself, and her whole body trembles with exertion. But it holds. 

Shiro takes one last look around at his friends. “I need to get to that portal,” he says, glancing at Haggar. The johrlac is watching them even now, but seems indifferent to their actions. No one could hold that tear in the world close indefinitely. It’s only a matter of time, and she knows it. 

But she  _ could  _ strike at his friends to speed up the process, if she wanted. Keith is already down and bleeding badly—and with Allura focused on holding the gash closed, she can’t heal him. Could the rest of them really hold their own against Haggar, enhanced as she is with that otherworldly magic? Shiro has to protect them. But to protect them, he has to stop that  _ thing— _

To his surprise, Lance shifts back to his humanoid form and speaks up. “You do what you gotta do, Shiro,” he says, oddly serious. “We can hold out.”

“Once Griffin’s teams chew through those mind controlled cultists, we’ll have backup,” Pidge adds, nodding in agreement. “Maybe Kolivan’s team will get here too. We’ll be ok.” 

“That thing  _ has  _ to be stopped,” Matt agrees grimly. “No matter what it takes.”  _ Even if it costs our lives,  _ are the unspoken words that follow. Sam nods solemnly in agreement.

“We’ll take care of Allura and Keith,” Hunk adds. “We’ve got this.” 

Coran nods. His eyes are serious, but his voice is almost jovial as he says, “Don’t you worry about us, now. Ask the mice, after this—I’ve been through a scrap or two in my day, and I always get out of it. I’ll make sure the rest do, too.” 

Even as he speaks, he’s already settling the unconscious Keith in his lap, rolling back one of his sleeves for an emergency bloodletting. As long as Keith feeds, and fast, he might live through this even without Allura’s help.

They’re all fighting so hard. They’re doing everything they can to support him. Now he needs to make sure they live through this, and there’s a world  _ left  _ afterwards to live  _ in.  _

“Thank you all,” he says. “Look out for each other.” And then he turns, leaping over the corpses and running the final ten feet to the tear in the world. 

Haggar snarls in anger as he approaches the gash in the world. “You will not stop his entry,” she snaps. “I  _ will  _ have my bargain! I will go  _ home!”  _

She hurls herself at him, and infused with even a few drops of that terrible void presence, she’s so fast he can barely track her. He raises his right arm defensively, and flames flare to life, the magic snarling in his mind,  _ MINE!  _

But it’s not Shiro that stops her. A shot rings out, and Haggar ducks back with an enraged shriek to avoid a bullet to the brain. Lance sights her down the length of Coran’s rifle and fires again, missing her only by a hair even with her enhanced speed—he always  _ had  _ been a stunning shot. In the few precious seconds she wastes avoiding Lance’s well-placed bullets, Hunk throws himself between Shiro and Haggar, a deadly wall of muscle and hissing, venomous snakes. 

“Go, Shiro!” Hunk yells. “We’ve got this!”

Shiro goes. He makes it the last five feet to the portal, and skids to a halt in front of it over blood and stone.  _ Show me what to do,  _ he asks the magic.  _ Please. Hurry.  _

_ Touch it,  _ the magic answers.  _ Unbalanced. Fight it. Burn away the corruption. Must never enter! Never! Never! Never!  _

He can’t argue with that. Gritting his teeth, he raises his flaming right hand, and plunges it through the tear in the world. 

Even with his arm literally on fire, and the comfortable, soothing warmth the magic fills him with, it’s  _ icy  _ cold on the other side of that tear. His fingers are frigid almost immediately, and he can’t even see them in the impenetrable blackness that is that other world. A chill races up his spine, and he shivers despite himself. 

_ Fight,  _ the magic urges.  _ Will. Power. Break it. Burn the corruption. Sever and close.  _

Shiro doesn’t really know what that means. He’s still too new to this. But the magic hasn’t led him wrong yet. It knows what to do—all it needs is his will, and his focus. He closes his eyes, trusts his friends to guard his back, and pushes his desperation and determination to save the world into his magic.

For just a moment, the edges of the tear  _ shiver.  _ The magic leaps high along his arm, spitting embers madly on this side of the tear, obscured and impossible to see on the other side.  _ Burn it away,  _ they scream,  _ burn it away burn it away burn it burn it burn it BREAK IT— _

Shiro feels something catch. There’s something  _ there.  _ Something to sever, to break, to destroy. Haggar’s spell does more than just guide the void presence—it unlocks a door on the other side, and levers that door open. It’s a key that the void presence, with all its decay and absence of existence, needs to crawl its way into the world fully. 

It isn’t here yet. There’s still time, still a chance to close the door in its face, lock it closed again, and throw away the key forever. If he could just reach it—if he was strong enough to break it—

The blood magic around him stirs. The evil of the magic is so intermingled by now with the terrible aura of the void presence that Shiro doesn’t realize it’s the  _ ritual  _ fighting him until it’s too late. The magic surges, and something on the other side slithers around his wrist and pulls, dragging his arm and the flames through the hole in the world up to his shoulder.

He curses, and tries to drag it back. He can hear the flames screaming in his head, but he can’t feel their heat, just icy cold and evil.

Haggar laughs. “You can’t beat a god, Shirogane—but you may be good bait for one. My master will be pleased with this offering.”

_ She played us,  _ he realizes, incredulous and horrified.  _ She’s been playing us from the moment this attack started. Everything’s gone the way  _ she  _ wanted.  _

She’s still getting inside their heads, even when she literally can’t. The thought leaves him as ice cold inside as the emptiness he can feel on the other side of the portal.

The blood magic pulls again, and Shiro jerks forward, unable to resist the strength of it. The void in the tear oozes over and around him as he’s dragged through to the other side. 

The last thing he hears is Haggar’s laughter, and several voices screaming his name. 


	34. Homo sapiens: Part Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay folks. The past few days have been...very crazy.
> 
> Anyway, this is the longest chapter in the whole fic, so fair warning: do not read if you have things to be doing.

“There’s not a chosen one. There never was. There’s just people, all over the world, trying their best to make sure the sun comes up tomorrow. We do the job because we know the job exists, and once you know the job exists, it’s hard to pretend it doesn’t matter.”   
—Antimony Price,  _ That Ain’t Witchcraft  _

**_In another reality, where mortals almost certainly shouldn’t be_ **

Silence. Blackness. Emptiness.

Shiro lashes out frantically in the darkness, swinging with his right arm on instinct. He can feel the flames burning along his arm even if he can’t see them, making his punch even more deadly, but his chilled fingers don’t connect with anything. 

He blinks, and sees nothing but darkness. 

He blinks again, and suddenly there’s light.

Not brilliant light. Everything around him is still immeasurably dark, full of shadows and empty spaces. But there’s distant light, too, from stars. This whole dark place, whatever or wherever it is, is full of thousands and thousands of stars, dusting what passes for the sky, below his feet embedded in what must be ground. Nebula clouds scatter the sky with muted reds and violets, and a dark moon hovers above him in an eternal eclipse. It’s strangely beautiful, and yet infinitely terrifying, all at once.

“Where is this place?” Shiro asks out loud. His voice is strangely hollow, echoing, but muted at the same time. 

His right arm flickers to life, tongues of purple flames curling over his arm, gentle and shockingly comforting. They chase away the chill of this place, making him comfortably warm again.  _ Not world,  _ it answers.  _ I am not of this. We are not of this. Wrong to be here, but not wrong.  _

So they don’t belong here. Shiro could have guessed that much. Wherever they are, they’d stepped out of their own world through a hole in its very fabric of existence. 

No, not stepped.  _ Pulled.  _ Haggar’s blood ritual had pulled them here, and something else waits for them on this side, something with glowing violet eyes. Shiro whips his head around, searching for the source of that malevolence, that emptiness, that mysterious  _ master  _ Haggar spoke of at the end. His left hand automatically plucks a blade from one of his hidden sheathes, holding the weapon at the ready, and the magic in his right arm flares warningly, more deadly than any blade could be.

_ “I wondered what sort of mortal could find his way to the world between worlds,”  _ a voice echoes around him. It’s cosmic, in his head and outside of it, from the stars and the spaces between them and the eternal eclipse hovering above. And more than anything else, it’s  _ familiar.  _

The crossroads avatar steps out of the air ten feet from Shiro. The stardust and the emptiness simply coalesce to give them form, in the guise Shiro is so familiar with now: Lotor, with his long white hair, deep purple skin, strange facial markings, and even stranger, outlandish armor. He strides forward calmly, raising an eyebrow as he gives Shiro a scrutinizing once-over. “My, my, Shirogane. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

The flames along Shiro’s arm flare higher, sparking angrily.  _ Usurper! Bond breaker! Liar! Mine, mine, mine!  _ The magic burns savagely, and curls almost possessively around Shiro, spitting violet embers in Lotor’s direction.

The anger neatly matches Shiro’s own. His eyes narrow, and he brings both knife and flames up defensively, keeping them between the avatar of the crossroads and himself. “You,” he snarls.  _ “You’re  _ behind this!”

He should have known it was a farce. To think Haggar could have had the strength to  _ possess  _ the crossroads. Lotor was a force of nature, the heart of the world itself—nothing mortal could control him. This had to be some kind of plan. 

And  _ Haggar.  _ She’d spoken about a price, and a bargain. She  _ had  _ to have made a deal with the crossroads. A violent, bloody one, unnatural and cruel, one that required vast amounts of power. He had to be behind this. Even Shiro’s  _ magic  _ can’t stand him, burning bright with the desire to scourge away wrongdoing. It all made sense. 

But Lotor gives him a look of genuine confusion, and Shiro wonders if he  _ could  _ fake that. He couldn’t lie...right? Their last encounter with him had made that exceptionally clear. 

“Behind…?” Lotor repeats, still with that perplexed look on his face. But then he stiffens, standing up straighter, his thousand-mile midnight eyes widening just a fraction. One of his hands raises to his neck, feeling at it strangely, as though expecting something to be there. His head turns to look over Shiro’s shoulder, and the confusion in his eyes shifts to grim understanding. 

“Ah,” he says, eyes fixated over Shiro’s shoulder, his gaze distant. “I see. I came to investigate how a mortal found its way to the Black Plane, and yet it seems I’ve made a terrible mistake as well.”

_ Wait, what? _

Lotor’s eyes remain fixated over Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro is hesitant to look, fearing a trap, but he risks a quick glance anyway. He sees nothing but endless stars and blackness, and whips back around suspiciously, knife and flames at the ready.

Lotor’s eyes finally flick to his own. The endless miles of roads trapped in his irises move sluggishly, and he offers a bitter smile. When he speaks, it’s with a strangely resigned air. “I’m not the one behind this, Shirogane. But I have a feeling you’ll be meeting them shortly.” He nods pointedly over Shiro’s shoulder again.

Shiro frowns at him. “There’s nothing there.”

“Is that so?” Lotor drawls, strangely cryptic. It’s the same careful tone he’d used when dispensing advice, in the form of an observation that didn’t require a bargain. 

Frowning, Shiro turns to look. He sees nothing but stars and nebulas and empty spaces again, just like before. But Lotor had appeared out of nowhere. And Haggar’s magic had drawn him in here from  _ this  _ side, somehow. Something is here. __

So he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and concentrates.  _ Show me what’s here,  _ he wills his magic.  _ Help me sense like before.  _

The magic is grudging. It’s a familiar feeling, like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. It doesn’t like Lotor, and wants nothing so much as to set him alight. But at Shiro’s request it stirs inside his arm, and his senses extend again, pushing deeper into this strange world.

When he opens his eyes again, this strange place—the Black Plane, Lotor had called it—is awash with movement. In the real world, Shiro hadn’t visually  _ seen  _ the signs of magic so much as felt them with another sense entirely, unrelated to vision or hearing or scent and yet so much like all of them at the same time. But here, he can actually  _ see  _ visual representations of energy, and it’s  _ everywhere.  _ The stars are coalesced energy. The nebulas are clouds of it. The blackness between things is full of absolute potential. 

The world between worlds, Lotor had called it. And the place between worlds, splitting them apart, was full of energy. It was what snake cultists killed for. 

It’s  _ quintessence.  _ All around him. A king’s ransom in energy that no mortal should ever have in their hands.

But there’s more to it than that. That quintessence is natural. It’s supposed to exist here, Shiro can instinctively feel. But there’s other magic as well—ropes of red and black energy, streaming through the gash in the world he’d been pulled through, stretching across a gap and plunging into thin air right where Lotor is staring. They stretch taught like cables pulling, and Shiro can just barely make out hairline cracks in midair. From the cracks, little dribbles of that same shadowy ooze drip free, slithering down the cables of energy towards the portal, and the same sense of absence and decay Shiro felt in the real world washes over him.

Shiro pales, whipping his head around to face Lotor again. “Something is on the other side of those cracks,” he observes carefully, mindful that even now, he can’t start asking Lotor questions. Questions mean requests, and requests mean bargains when dealing with a crossroads entity.

Lotor gives him an almost pitying look. Shiro is honestly surprised that a force of nature like him could even feel something like pity. “Yes. My progenitor. I suppose in human terms, you might call him my father.”

Shiro is so shocked that he forgets his caution. “Cosmic forces have  _ fathers?”  _

“Not in your traditional, messy mortal sense,” Lotor says. His empty thousand-mile eyes drift back over Shiro’s shoulder. “But I did have to come from somewhere, didn’t I?”

For just a moment, his expression turns to black hatred, and the roadways in his irises rush past with absurd speed before growing sluggish again. Despite himself, Shiro shudders. The wrath of a cosmic force, even not directly aimed at him, is terrible to behold.

“Unfortunately for you,” Lotor says, still with a flash of anger in his eyes, “My father and I have...differences in opinion, let’s say...on what a world spirit is entitled to, and how one conducts their business.” 

Shiro doesn’t like the sound of that. He turns to look over his shoulder again, watching the magic behind him once more. The red and black cables of magic—five of them—tug harder, pulling taught. The magic creating them swirls violently, chaotically, and even at this distance they feel absolutely disgusting. 

This, then, is the end result of the blood ritual—funnelling magic to a world that should have stayed locked forever, and creating a means to cut the chains on that world. Haggar’s spell is a clever set of skeleton keys, for the jail cell of a cosmic force of absence itself.

The cracks in the air grow wider as Shiro watches, and more of that foul void energy oozes through from the other side, slipping down the cables of blood magic and funnelling into the real world. That must be how Haggar got her boosts of energy—slipping it through in drips and drabs, collecting and using it where she could. And those were only  _ pieces.  _ If the originator makes it through, shatters the boundary between the Black Plane and whatever world it’s trapped in, it’s going to be  _ over.  _

_ How do I stop it?  _ Shiro asks his magic. Whatever it takes, he’s willing to fight. 

But before the magic can even answer, the cracks in the wall grow larger, spidering out around the blood ritual at an alarming rate. And now, as though looking through a fogged, breaking mirror, Shiro can see a form coalescing on the other side of the air. It’s dark, dripping the same shadowy ooze that had once coated Lotor, and that terrible malevolent aura thickens around them, choking the air. Gleaming at its center are the same violet eyes that had stared at him through the portal. 

“I apologize, Shirogane,” Lotor says softly. There’s resignation in his voice, and dread ices over Shiro’s heart when he realizes that the anima mundi, a cosmic force that had nearly destroyed him while possessed at even partial strength, is  _ afraid.  _ “I am afraid both of us are about to die. Violently.”

And with an ominous cracking noise, the wall of another world shatters, and the void presence smashes its way through to the Black Plane.

It moves like shadow made liquid, like a solid fog, darker than even the dark, empty spaces of the Black Plane. It pours out of the shattered hole to another world in a violent torrent, shards and strands of quintessence membrane clinging to its form. Shiro throws up his hands to protect his face as the concussive force of its entry sweeps over him, and the sheer malevolence that emanates from the  _ thing  _ is enough to make Shiro want to be physically ill. 

_ Wrong,  _ the flames wail in his head.  _ Wrong. Terrible. Wrong. Corruption. Wrong!  _

Shiro understands. He’d thought that feeling of decay, that emptiness, had been overwhelming in his own world. But in the presence of the very  _ thing  _ that emits it, he realizes now that what he’d felt before had been a pale imitation by comparison. 

This thing is a force in its own right. Lotor’s progenitor, he’d said. Lotor is a literal cosmic force of the world—but he was something of living, of balance, of natural order.  _ This  _ thing, his progenitor—it’s the very cosmic embodiment of the end of life, the end of potential, the end of  _ existence.  _ It’s absence. It’s emptiness. It’s  _ void.  _

And it’s  _ here.  _ It’s broken through the last wall. The gash to his own world is open. Haggar, and this thing, have  _ won.  _

_ I’m so sorry,  _ he moans in his own mind. To his magic. To his friends. To the world.  _ I couldn’t stop it. I’m so sorry.  _

But to Shiro’s amazement, the void presence doesn’t follow the cables of blood magic, still wrenching the worlds open on both sides, through to Shiro’s reality. It circles the Black Plane, filling the whole of the place with its evil aura, as though searching. It circles ever closer to Lotor, ignoring Shiro entirely. As he watches, the coalesced void pauses, hovering within ten feet of Lotor, and a set of gleaming, slitted violet eyes open in its depths. 

_ “I thought I felt you on the other side,”  _ the void speaks. Like the crossroads without an assumed form, this voice is everywhere and nowhere at once: in the air, in the not-quite-ground, in the stars and the eternal eclipse above. But this voice is deep, chaotic, and grating, born out of the dark places in Shiro’s mind, and it almost immediately triggers his instincts to run. _ “When my bargainer lost you, I was certain I would need to track you down. How fortunate she has ensured you come to me instead.”  _

“Hello, father,” Lotor answers coolly. “I suppose that’s why you’ve bound me here, and in a singular form.”

_ “I will not permit you to run again,”  _ the void presence answers, cold and powerful and terrible.  _ “Did you think you could keep me bound forever? Did you think you could  _ run  _ forever? You are  _ weak.  _ It was only a matter of time.”  _

Shiro’s brows raise at the conversion he’s being allowed to eavesdrop on, seemingly because he’s too insignificant for either of them to bother with him. Only a matter of  _ time?  _ Lotor is the anima mundi of his world. He needs to be nearly as old as sentient life has  _ existed  _ on Earth. If he’s that old, then how old is this progenitor? What had  _ happened,  _ before humans and crytpids were even a thought in the eye of existence? 

“Your methods are reprehensible and barbaric,” Lotor snaps coldly. Like before, Shiro can hear the fear in this form’s voice, but there’s also anger and disgust. “You fed on your reality until it died. You deserved to be trapped there in the ruins of your own making.”

_ “No,”  _ the void presence growls.  _ “That reality  _ owed  _ me its power, as its god. And when it had granted me all of its strength, other realities have more.”  _

“That is not what we are, and not what we were meant to do,” Lotor says. “A world is meant to be invested in and cultivated, not drained of every spark of life. And you are  _ not  _ entitled to every world that exists.” 

_ “This is the method of the weak,”  _ the void presence snarls.  _ “I am a  _ god  _ among mortals. Among even anima mundi.  _ You  _ should show such strength as well, as my progeny, and yet you hide like a coward and play your games of  _ cultivation.  _ You are my greatest shame.”  _

“A title I wear with great honor,” Lotor sneers. 

_ “Silence!”  _ the void presence roars, and even if neither of them are focused on Shiro, he still quails under the power of that voice. Lotor grits his teeth in a snarl, but he seems unable to break the quiet either, and Shiro has no doubt this other cosmic force has  _ some  _ hold over him. 

_ “That is over with,”  _ the void presence says, after a moment.  _ “It took my servant centuries, but centuries are nothing to us. She has finally broken open the door. And even if she lost you, for a time, she was still clever enough to deliver you to me. You are weak, but you do still have power. Once I consume you, this world is  _ mine,  _ and everything invested in it belongs to me. And I will take all of it.”  _

Shiro pales. This thing could  _ replace  _ Lotor? Lotor is a crossroads entity, and it’s impossible to say where he stands exactly, but he  _ does  _ still operate by some manner of ethics. This thing of decay and absence, it will tear the very world apart to take what it wants. 

Lotor’s eyes flick to Shiro for only a moment and back, but it’s enough to confirm that what the void presence says is very real. The fear in those thousand-mile eyes can’t be faked, not even by a cosmic force. But he’s careful not to draw attention to Shiro, and with a bewildering realization, Shiro realizes this void presence hasn’t even noticed him. He’s too mortal, too insignificant and tiny, for a self-proclaimed god to care about. 

The cloud of shadows and gleaming violet eyes drifts closer now, extending tendrils towards the crossroads avatar. Lotor watches them warily, but then to Shiro’s surprise, lets out a short bark of laughter. 

“You speak of being like a god,” Lotor sneers. “And yet you must use the full force of your true form, and bind me in an avatar, just to try and consume me? I think eons trapped in the broken world you made for yourself have weakened you, father. You claim you’re strong, yet you’ve starved. Does the memory of power haunt you?”

The void presence recoils, snarling.  _ “You dare speak to me in such a way?”  _ it booms, and Shiro can  _ feel  _ its anger in the very depths of his soul, and fights not to crash to his knees in terror. This thing might not be a god, to the anima mundi, but to a mere human like Shiro, it’s as terrible and divine a thing as he will ever witness.  _ “I was bound because of  _ your  _ weakness, but it’s only made me stronger. You want to witness my true power? I’ll drain existence from you with only a  _ fraction  _ of it!”  _

And before Shiro’s eyes, the void presence  _ changes.  _ The fog of shadows whirls to the ground and coalesces, the liquid darkness growing denser and thicker. And from it steps a figure, the likes of which Shiro has never seen before. 

Shiro is a tall man, by human standards, over six feet in height. But he barely comes to the figure’s chest, and the avatar of absence towers over him. He’s thickly muscled as well, with powerful legs and unnaturally long arms that end in wicked-looking claws. The head is strangest—a flatter face, with bony ridges and protrusions all along his skull and the back of his head, like natural carapace armor. Combined with his long, flowing cloak of shadows and unusual spiked armor, which glows the same sickly violet as his eyes, he appears more alien and unnatural than even Lotor, something not of this world. 

He raises one clawed hand and clenches it, and as he moves, his whole body seems to absorb light and energy around it. He is absence, and things cease to exist in his presence, like a black hole made manifest in a being of unimaginable power.

“I remember that form,” Lotor says, soft but no less disgusted and cold for his volume. “You wore it when you turned on your petitioners and consumed your world. What did you call yourself? Zarkon?”

_ “Blood Emperor  _ Zarkon,” the figure corrects. His voice is no longer as all-encompassing as it had been, in a cosmic form. But it’s still deep, grating, and dangerous, demanding respect.

“Ah, yes,” Lotor says. “A mortal title for a lord of a ruined world. How fitting.”

“All you have are  _ words,”  _ Zarkon sneers. “After all this time, even with a reality ripe for the taking of your own, you are  _ weak.  _ You always have been.”

Lotor says nothing, glaring across at the figure coldly.

“But at last, the time has come,” Zarkon says, taking a step forward. “You will be weak no longer, once I consume you. This ends  _ today.”  _

Zarkon advances, rapidly closing the distance between the two. Shiro waits for Lotor to fight back, to step away, to do  _ something.  _ Surely a cosmic force such as the anima mundi is the only thing in the world that can fight another. He’d been incredibly powerful when Shiro had fought him, even at partial strength, weakened as he had been by the appeal and Haggar’s possession.

But Lotor does nothing as Zarkon advances, one step, then two, then three. He stands stiffly, jaw set, glaring with fear and hatred alike as his progenitor approaches. 

It occurs to Shiro, rather unexpectedly, that he hasn’t seen Lotor move at  _ all  _ since he’d first arrived from that same spot. And when Lotor’s thousand-mile eyes flick to him again for just a moment, around Zarkon’s shoulder, he understands. 

_ He can’t move. He said Zarkon bound him. He  _ can’t  _ fight back.  _

Shiro grits his teeth, and charges. 

He’s only ten feet from either of them, and it takes him only a moment to cross the distance. Zarkon is tall and heavily armored, but he also isn’t paying attention to Shiro at all, his focus entirely on the unmoving Lotor. That suits Shiro just fine. He dives past Zarkon, twists the knife in his left hand, and rams it into the avatar of absence’s ribs, just under the heavily plated chestpiece and angled upwards towards the heart.

On almost any mortal humanoid Shiro has ever fought, this would be a killing blow. On Zarkon, it seems more a perplexing inconvenience than anything else. Zarkon’s head twists to stare down at Shiro, and his gleaming violet eyes blink once in confusion. Then he almost casually raises his left hand and backhands Shiro hard across the face.

The blow is shockingly powerful, even for so casual a backhand. Shiro’s mind reels and his vision spins as he staggers backwards, stumbling to recover his balance and his senses. The touch of Zarkon’s hand, even briefly, is enough to chill him to the core, and the scent of decay fills his nose. He coughs, and spits blood.

But he doesn’t give up. And his training had taught him to recover quickly from attack. So he only staggers for a few seconds, vision swimming, before he rights himself and charges in again. The knife had done nothing—it’s still protruding from Zarkon’s side, oozing a few drops of shadowy, viscous blood, but it doesn’t seem to deter him any. So Shiro draws back his right fist and punches, and the violet flames spring to life along his arm as he does.

_ BURN THE CORRUPTION!  _ His magic shrieks in his mind.  _ BURN IT! BURN IT! BURN IT TO ASH!  _

_ Do it,  _ Shiro agrees.  _ Buy me a little time.  _

His fist connects with Zarkon’s arm, almost casually raised to block it. And with a roar, the violet flames leap across, setting Zarkon’s whole arm ablaze.

The knife had done nothing, but the fire, the magic, is clearly another story. Zarkon snarls in surprise, swiping his arm to try and put out the flames. But this is no ordinary fire—it has purpose, and intent, and an intense fear and loathing of the thing it now burns. It clings stubbornly to the arm, and in a matter of seconds sweeps up to Zarkon’s head, chest, cloak, body, until all of him is alight with furious, violet flames. 

Zarkon shrieks, blinded and surprised, and whirls away from Shiro and Lotor, clawing savagely at the fire.

Shiro ducks past him, skidding to a halt next to Lotor. The anima mundi turns his head to regard him with interest, before saying bluntly, “That will not keep him for long.”

“I figured,” Shiro says. “I just needed time. Can you fight him?”

“No,” Lotor says. “Nor can I run.” He reaches towards his neck again, as though there’s an invisible collar. “If I could face him in Oriande, the cradle of my power...but we are outside of the world we belong to.” He laughs bitterly. “A clever move. That’s the second time his witch has tricked me. He has quite thoroughly bound me here.”

Shiro curses. “Can I free you somehow?”

“I sincerely doubt it. You’re only mortal, Shirogane. My father is a world spirit older and more powerful than I.”

“Can you make a deal with me to give me some kind of advantage?” Dealing with Lotor would be dangerous. He could ask for anything, and Shiro would have no choice but to pay it. But in this moment, they share the same goal, and Lotor’s intentions seem clear. He might be tricky, and he might hold Shiro’s debt over him for the rest of Shiro’s life, but he  _ did  _ want to protect Shiro’s world. Between Zarkon and Lotor, Shiro will choose the latter.

But Lotor only shakes his head, with a bitter, resigned expression. “If I could, I would,” he says. “But in binding me here, he has taken my power to grant you anything for payment. Nor am I strong enough to give you any form of advantage, even if I could. I am still weak, after his servant’s meddling.” 

His lips twist in a sickly smile. “For all my posturing, he wasn’t wrong, Shirogane. He is far stronger than I. He drained the life and energy out of the whole of his reality and left it to rot. I have never been willing to do the same, which allows you to live. But it means he has vast power I cannot match.”

Shiro grimaces. “You’re awfully free with information today. This all has to do with Galra, doesn’t it? You told me I couldn’t pay that price before.”

“The information has very little value now, that I am about to die, and you as well,” Lotor says, almost dryly. “I cannot formally bargain with you. The most I can do is arm you with information.”

Shiro swears again. “And if he  _ does  _ kill you, he replaces you? Did I get that right?”

“Yes,” Lotor whispers softly. “And when he does, he will consume  _ my  _ world—your world—and reduce it to ruin. He destroys. He consumes power endlessly. It is all he knows.” He closes his eyes. “I truly am sorry. I sought to keep him at bay and cultivate a world that grew, not fell to ruin. I should have known he would shatter his bonds and come for me eventually.” 

Shiro swallows, and glances back over his shoulder. His magic fights valiantly, but the flames are rapidly being snuffed out. They’d barely done any damage—at most, they’d been an irritant, a biting insect that made no real threat. He’s nearly out of time. 

_ Can you hear me?  _ Shiro reaches out in his mind, attuning to the words of magic he’s so recently learned.

_ I am here,  _ the flames answer. Only a part of them burns at Zarkon; the rest are still with him.  _ The corruption will not burn. It is too strong. Too unnatural.  _

_ I know. I have another idea, instead. We need to protect Lotor.  _

His magic recoils, angry.  _ Usurper!  _ It snarls.  _ Bond breaker! Liar!  _

_ But natural,  _ Shiro argues. He doesn’t know why his magic hates Lotor so much, but he doesn’t have time for it.  _ He’s of this world. He belongs. If he dies, Zarkon takes control.  _

_ Unnatural,  _ the flames hiss and spit.  _ Hate it. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!  _

_ Then we need Lotor to live,  _ Shiro says. 

The flames grumble. They don’t like it. But they show him what to do, and he follows through, planting his hand on the not-ground at Lotor’s feet. A wall of flame shoots up in a six foot circle all around the anima mundi, violet and brilliant and bright, and it stays there even when Shiro pulls his hand away. 

Lotor frowns. “What is this?”

“Protection,” Shiro says grimly. “It’s not much, but it will buy a little time. You can’t die. I don’t like you, but this world  _ needs  _ you. You die, and we all lose. If something happens, and you have the chance to run, do it.” 

“And what do  _ you  _ intend to do, while I am bound by my father’s will, and your flames?” Lotor asks. 

“Whatever I can,” Shiro says. And he turns around, to face a god.

The last of the violet flames snuff out beneath one of Zarkon’s enormous, clawed fists, and he turns to face Shiro, glowing eyes narrowing. “A mortal,” he observes. “In the Black Plane. I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

“Your servant failed to stop me from getting here,” Shiro taunts, even if it’s not entirely true. Haggar had dragged him here on purpose...to make Lotor show up and investigate the presence of a mortal, if he’s understanding right. She’d called him  _ bait.  _ Lotor was the real end goal.

He slides another knife into his left hand. He knows it won’t help much, but it feels good to have the weight of steel there, alongside the flames roaring along his right arm.

Zarkon stares at him impassively, before his eyes flick to the flame wall surrounding Lotor, and back to Shiro. “You’re a petitioner,” he observes. “I can see the mark of a bargain with my weak progeny on you.” His head turns to Lotor. “Have you grown so pathetic you choose a mortal champion to protect you? Disgusting.”

“If you bothered to study them, and not enslave and consume them, you might come to realize mortals can be surprising,” Lotor says coldly. He  _ hadn’t  _ chosen Shiro to protect him at all—he was here only because he’d been baited—but Lotor is exceptional at making even mishaps sound like masterful moves on a chessboard, without ever actually lying. “This one is quite clever. I am willing to stake my existence on him.”

_ No pressure,  _ Shiro thinks to himself. Then again, it’s not like either of them have a choice in the matter. Either Shiro succeeds, or he dies, and the world follows.

Zarkon sneers. “Then you are not long for this world,” he says. “I’ll drain the life from your champion before I drain you. You will see where your idiotic  _ studies  _ leave you.” His eyes shift to Shiro. “You are a fool to face me here. In the Black Plane, your world soul cannot save you, and I am as a god to you. Die.”

And he charges.

Zarkon is  _ fast.  _ Blindingly so. Shiro barely has time to raise his arms in a cross guard, blade out like a deterrent, before Zarkon slams into him. The force is enough to send him reeling backwards, skidding at least ten feet over the not-quite surface and making his head spin at the movement.

Shiro barely has time to understand his new position, arms still crossed, before Zarkon appears at his side. The avatar of absence moves like shadows through the darkness, violet eyes appearing out of nowhere. He whirls around, jamming his spiked, armored elbow straight into Shiro’s side. The pressure and the pain is incredible, and Shiro is lifted from his feet by the force of the blow, sailing another ten feet before crashing to the ground  _ hard  _ on his side. 

It  _ hurts.  _ Zarkon might not be a god, but this certainly  _ feels  _ like a divine beating from an almighty presence. Less than ten seconds, and Shiro’s already sure something has broken in his side.

But he isn’t a quitter. And he might not have been trained to fight cosmic forces of nature, but he  _ did  _ train to keep on getting up until he died. So with a practice twist of his wrists and hips, he manages to turn his crashing collapse into a controlled roll, and slides to his feet, left hand braced against the ground, right hand awash with flames. He lost his dagger somewhere mid-flight, but it’s not like it was helping anyway. He’ll make do.

“Let’s see if you’ve got some common weaknesses,” Shiro mutters under his breath, as he draws the gun loaded with silver rounds and unloads them all in Zarkon’s direction.

Zarkon’s eyes only narrow at him, before he blurs forward in Shiro’s direction. The bullets crash into him as he rockets forward, making cracks in armor and piercing exposed flesh, but the wounds seal almost as fast as Shiro makes them. Zarkon’s foot snakes out to catch Shiro squarely in the stomach, and he’s kicked backwards violently, the wind knocked from his lungs as he crashes to the ground once again.

_ Okay,  _ he notes, as he forces himself painfully to his feet again.  _ Silver is useless.  _

But he’s not out of tricks yet. The consecrated blade in his left sleeve is next, flicking out deftly into his fingers as he readies for Zarkon’s next assault. The avatar of absence appears out of the darkness next to him, lunging with an outstretched fist. Shiro twists aside, barely dodging the fist by a hair’s breadth, and slams the blade down into the unprotected inner elbow, in the space between plates of armor.

Zarkon grunts, but it’s the only noticeable reaction. The wound has the inconvenience of a paper cut, but not the flesh-burning, soul-charring consequences a consecrated blade would have on a ghost or an abomination made of dark magics. 

Shiro curses, but by then he’s well within Zarkon’s range, and the avatar of absence whips his fist around in another teeth-crunching backhand. Shiro tastes blood as he’s sent whirling away. It’s a lot harder to stumble to his feet again, this time, when he crashes to the ground. 

_ Do not perish,  _ his magic whispers to him. 

_ I’m trying,  _ Shiro thinks back, gasping for breath.  _ This isn’t easy!  _

_ Burn him,  _ the magic says.  _ Burn him, burn him, burn him. Burn away the corruption.  _

Magic  _ has  _ worked the best out of anything Shiro’s tried so far, but it still wasn’t very effective. There’s no trace of burns on Zarkon’s armor or carapace-like skull. It had been a distraction at best, not a key to victory.

But then again, Shiro’s not really hoping for a victory. There’s no way he can beat a world spirit, especially not one like Zarkon. He’s only mortal. Zarkon is all but a god to him. 

He hasn’t gone into this fight expecting to live through it. He’s only hoping to be enough of a distraction that Lotor will have a chance to slip away. If their own anima mundi can avoid being consumed by Zarkon, get back to Oriande, and fortify himself with all of his power, he might be able to fight back. That would save the world. 

Shiro’s life is a cheap price, if the reward is the world still existing.

But even if he doesn’t expect to live, he doesn’t intend to go down  _ easy.  _ And he still has a few tricks up his sleeves. 

His hands shake as they slip into the belt pouches at his waist, palming the small flask of holy water and the purified salts he’d brought as backups for the purification ritual. They’re useful for protection against darker things, and in exorcisms, and Zarkon is  _ anything  _ but pure. 

_ Wrong,  _ the flames agree in his mind.  _ Corruption. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  _

Shiro grits his teeth, and holds his ground as Zarkon advances on him again, bowing slightly under the assault of sharp pains in his side but keeping his legs planted firmly. Zarkon is still lightning fast, but Shiro’s already learning to strike predictively. Just as Zarkon closes in, Shiro thumbs the caps on the flask and jar, and whips the holy water and the purified salts into the void presence’s eyes.

Zarkon snaps his head back with a snarl, wisps of smoky shadow rising from his suddenly burning eyes as he squeezes them shut. Shiro’s not sure if it’s the holy water or the salts that actually managed to hurt him, and he doesn’t care—the moment his opponent is distracted, he rears back his burning right arm and plants his fist solidly into Zarkon’s face.

_ BURN THE CORRUPTION!  _ His flames scream, as they leap to the avatar of absence once more, igniting and clinging.

Zarkon snarls again, clutching at his face as the fires do their best to consume the very essence of consumption. Shiro doesn’t waste his opportunity, immediately lashing out with another hefty punch from his burning arm, and several roundhouse kicks in rapid succession. He doesn’t bother with weapons anymore; bullets and blades don’t work. Instead he strikes, and strikes, and  _ strikes,  _ all while his flames burn and crawl over Zarkon’s armor and flesh, snapping and popping. 

_ “Enough!”  _ Zarkon roars, and the flames snuff out at once, shrieking angrily in Shiro’s head. The burning, empty holes where his eyes had been smooth over with shadows, and his gaze glows violet as he stares into Shiro’s soul. He’s furious, and despite himself, Shiro quails inside as that terrible thing lays eyes upon him.

Quails—but not surrenders. Shiro lashes out at him with his right hand again, palm flat for a cutting, flame-wreathed strike. Zarkon simply  _ disappears,  _ oozing liquid shadow slipping sideways and around behind Shiro. He takes form again almost as quickly as he vanishes, and once again his enormous left arm whips out to smash into Shiro’s spine, hard. 

Shiro can’t even scream; the breath is knocked from him too quickly to cry out. He smashes into the not-quite-ground with incredible force, cracking his head hard into the strange crystalized energy that makes the surface. Something in his side  _ snaps  _ again, harder this time, and his back is already bleeding from the sharp force of Zarkon’s gauntlets.

And then he’s flying. Incredibly, unbelievably, he hits the ground so hard he ricochets into the air.  _ Impossible,  _ his dizzy, abused mind manages to think, as the star-studded world whirls around him, upside down and sideways and alien.  _ I’m human. This is impossible.  _ He feels strangely light, like gravity doesn’t exist anymore, and a distant, unfocused part of his mind wonders if this is what space is like. 

_ Void comes!  _ His magic whispers frantically in his ear.  _ Do not perish!  _

Shiro’s disoriented senses barely have time to understand what that means, spinning end over end in the air, before the dark shadow and gleaming violet eyes of Zarkon’s form appear. The avatar of absence’s long claws flash, and Shiro is breathless again as something crashes into his sternum, and he goes rocketing back down to the not-quite ground. He smashes into the crystalized energy once again, and skids and rolls uncontrollably to a halt, too disoriented to even try to turn his momentum into a safe roll. 

For too many seconds he lays on his side, stares dully at a distant nebula, and doesn’t move. 

Time is of the essence here, but he  _ can’t.  _ He hurts everywhere. He’s pretty sure several ribs are broken by now, and breathing is becoming an exercise in pain. His head throbs from that last crack against the ground, and his thoughts swim, which probably means a concussion. Every part of him is battered and bruised and twisted. He can taste blood in his mouth, and feel it running down his back and side. 

“And what  _ exactly  _ is your plan here, Shirogane?” a cultured voice asks, scathing and yet tight with worry. “Are you going to throw yourself at my father until he breaks you into pieces?”

Shiro blinks blood out of his eyes—he hadn’t even realized he’d been cut on his face—and slowly, agonizingly, manages to lift his head. To his very great surprise, he’s only a few feet from the ring of fire he’d placed defensively around Lotor. The anima mundi is as close as he can get to Shiro without stepping through the flames, watching him with an unamused expression on his face. 

“At least I’m doing  _ something,”  _ Shiro gasps, wincing. Even talking strains his ribs. He wants so badly to keep lying there, unmoving, and yet he forces himself to stumble to his hands and knees. Even that is a struggle, and his limbs tremble with exertion as he tries to push himself up.

“Not much of anything, from the looks of it,” Lotor says caustically. “It’s possible you’re giving my father some entertainment, but that is a far cry from doing anything  _ useful  _ for either of us.”

Shiro winces again as he manages to stagger to his feet. His balance is shaky and his vision still swirls uncomfortably, but he’s up. He looks around for Zarkon, moaning as turning his head too fast causes a wave of nausea, and finally spots the avatar of absence twenty feet distant, on the ground again. As Shiro watches, his eyes gleam coldly, and he starts to stalk closer.

“Can you escape yet?” Shiro rasps, ignoring Lotor’s criticism. “Not sure how much longer I can distract him.”

Lotor’s thousand-mile eyes widen. “Is  _ that  _ your plan?” he says. “What an utterly foolish idea, Shirogane. Once my father has something in his grasp, he doesn’t let it go, and a single irritating mortal won’t change that.”

“I can’t beat him,” Shiro says, pressing a hand to his side. Something is  _ definitely  _ moving in there that shouldn’t be. “No holy water or salt left. Magic doesn’t help.”

“Of course you can’t beat him!” Lotor snaps. “You couldn’t even defeat  _ me,  _ Shirogane, when I was possessed by that  _ witch!  _ Defeating him was  _ never  _ an option, not di—”

He chokes, mid sentence. Shiro blinks at him in surprise as Lotor scratches at his throat in frustration. It stirs a vague memory in Shiro’s mind, of Pidge’s appeal, and the gasping, choking way in which Lotor—under the control of Haggar—had struggled and failed desperately to lie. 

_ Something’s stopping him from talking,  _ Shiro realizes tiredly. Lotor’s own rules, and the powers that bound him to deals and truths? Or Zarkon, crushing Lotor’s ability to share  _ any  _ information that might be of help? In the end, Shiro figures it doesn’t really matter.

Or does it? Shiro glances wearily in Zarkon’s direction again, watching with trepidation as Zarkon stalks ever closer. Lotor didn’t seem to think he could win directly. But he  _ had  _ expected Shiro to have a plan. 

Which means there might still be a way to save Lotor, and by extension, the whole of his world.

_ Mine,  _ the flames whisper in his head, flaring brightly, angrily, possessively.  _ Mine. You must not perish. Mine.  _

_ Alright,  _ Shiro says.  _ I get your meaning. If I can get us out of this alive, I will.  _

But how did one defeat a god? 

Not by defeating it head on, apparently. Lotor had scoffed at the notion.  _ You couldn’t even defeat me.  _

But he  _ had  _ won against Lotor. Not directly—Lotor could have crushed him directly. But Lotor hadn’t been the one who wanted to fight. That had been Haggar. And once he’d severed the void shadows from Lotor, cut Haggar’s bindings away, she hadn’t been able to sustain herself in Oriande—

Shiro’s eyes widen.  _ Show me,  _ he calls to the flames, and conveys his idea in thoughts and emotions and the language of magic. 

_ Yes,  _ the magic whispers back.  _ Yes. Yes. Burn the corruption. See. See!  _

And the flames rush into Shiro’s senses, and he really  _ does  _ see.

He sees the way the blood ritual, and its five tendrils of power,  _ still  _ wrench open a tear between Zarkon’s abandoned, rotten world, and Shiro’s own vibrant, living one. He sees the way that magic sustains the void presence that calls itself Zarkon, a wedge in the gap to keep the door from sealing, calling the presence from the outside to the ritual’s epicenter.

The blood rituals were designed to pull things from other realities into the reality of origin. They were like guideposts, from one world to another. Feed them enough power, and they would draw something otherworldly home, and give them the strength to make the journey. Haggar’s ritual functioned as keys in the locks to Zarkon’s prison, and held the door open wide for him.

Remove the energy, remove the keys, and the things from the outside would be lost and powerless, and the jail cell slams shut around them again. 

Haggar wouldn’t need to sustain the spell indefinitely. Only long enough to hold Zarkon in their world, until he could find and consume Lotor, and replace him as the world spirit. Once Zarkon had fit himself into the roots of the world, he couldn’t be moved. 

But he didn’t have Lotor yet. He was still transient. And if Shiro can work fast enough to rip out the locks and throw away the keys, then for all his godlike power, he won’t be able to stay.

_ Work with me,  _ Shiro says to the magic.  _ Can you destroy those?  _

_ Burn it to ashes,  _ the magic agrees.  _ Vile corruption. Won’t let it exist. Burn it to ashes!  _

Shiro charges.

Zarkon laughs. “You still believe you can kill a god?” He lashes out almost casually, sharp claws gouging for Shiro’s face.

Shiro throws himself to the ground at the last moment, and Zarkon’s claws flash past his eyes, a hair’s breadth from his skin. He hits the ground on his side, gritting his teeth against the jarring sensation on his ribs, and his momentum carries him forward like a batter sliding to base. He skids past a surprised-looking Zarkon, rolls to his feet with a pained stumble, and lunges the last six feet to the first of the blood-red cables of ritual energy.

And wraps his flaming hand around it, digging his fingers in deep. 

He half expects his hand to pass straight through it. It’s energy, only visible to the naked eye because of the magic that infuses him. Even then it’s translucent, like fog spun into a long cable, always moving but never really solid. 

Yet to his surprise, it has weight and texture beneath his burning hand. His fingers sink into it like strings of half-congealed blood, and it oozes, sticky and viscous, beneath his skin. The very touch of it is stomach-churning and foul, like cruelty and loathing bound up into physical form. 

He hates it. Every part of it. It’s  _ everything  _ terrible about those rituals, the remains of dozens of murdered people, all to sustain the essence of death and decay and nothingness. 

_ Don’t leave a single shred behind,  _ Shiro snarls savagely, pouring all that his anger, his pain, and his disgust into the magic.

_ BURN THE CORRUPTION!  _ The flames howl in his head, feeding on his will and flaring bright.  _ BURN IT! END IT! BURN IT! END IT! DESTROY THE VOID!  _

The entire cable of blood ritual energy bursts alight, tongues of violet fire racing up and down either direction from Shiro’s hand to send it all up in flames. The blood magic solidifies beneath his fingers, crystalizing under the heat. The ritual  _ resists  _ him, crashing against his will in a tidal wave—

_ They cast her out.  _

_ They cast her from her home. Her family. Her  _ reality.  _ They demonize her for her studies, strip her notes and her titles from her hands and shred them into dust.  _

We must never play god,  _ they insist.  _ It’s too dangerous. You don’t exercise caution.  _ She can feel their anger. Their shame. Their disgust. They don’t keep it from the first layer of their minds; they  _ want  _ her to know exactly how repulsed they are by her research.  _

_ Fools. They praise science when it suits them, but demonize her research when it doesn’t. They want discovery, but fear to look into the unknown to claim it. It is  _ vital  _ to push into dangerous territory in pursuit of knowledge. And yet, they are too stupid to understand that.  _

She  _ understands. She understands there is so much  _ more  _ potential to them than what they are. Living a life of stagnant instars, never capable of unlocking their  _ true  _ ability unless a random probability in a world of infinite potential deigns to grant them birth as a Queen. Random chance should never decide a person’s fate, not where science could grant them the right to  _ any  _ possibility life could offer.  _

_ Why can’t they see that? Why can’t they see their evolution is  _ flawed?  _ Why are a few individuals born to so much power, when so few of them  _ deserve  _ it? Why do so many of them exist only to birth those creatures in a new generation, but never to obtain that power for themselves? _

_ Evolution is the key. It’s the key to  _ everything.  _ She could change it. She could break open the secrets of their genetics, their instincts, their inherited memories. She could find the key, decode the riddles. They could control their own destinies, their own generations, their own existences.  _

_ And for that, they call her a blasphemer, and they cast her out. They strip the knowledge of her research from her mind. They strip the memories of her reality, anything she could use to find it, from her as well. They leave her with only fragments, enough to remember her sins, enough to learn her lesson. Shadows of minds that disapprove, but no names, no identities.  _

_ And they cast her from her reality. _

_ The world that becomes her prison is bleak. There are sentient creatures, but they are stupid things, barely capable of basic machines and tools. Their science, such as they have, is a joke, and their alchemy is more fantasy than function.  _

_ There are others from her world as well, exiles like her, but she cares nothing for them. They run rampant among creatures with minds too weak to resist even passive mental coercions, manipulating and killing gleefully. They don’t treat this place as a prison. They loathe their jailers, but they don’t care for the effort it would take to seek revenge.  _

_ She does. _

_ She will have it. She will find her way back to her home, to her family, to her research. She will find her way back to those that condemned her, even if it takes her an entire lifetime.  _

_ And when she does, she will shred their minds to pieces, and make them understand what it  _ truly  _ means, to play god.  _

—and Shiro comes back to himself, and his will is stronger, and the cable of energy collapses under his fingers as he crushes, burning down to nothing. The whole of it crumbles into dead energy, ash and emptiness. The first of the blood ritual tendrils disappears, the first of the keys is wrenched from the lock and hurled away into the darkness. 

Shiro gasps.  _ What was that?  _ It had felt so  _ real.  _ They weren’t his memories, but they  _ felt  _ like them. He hadn’t been himself. He’d been something else, something that experienced the world with his mind and not his eyes, someone who was outraged and abandoned and alone. 

_ Honerva.  _ His name—no,  _ her  _ name—it had been Honerva. He doesn’t know how he knows that, only that he does.

_ Memory,  _ his magic whispers.  _ Memory and emotion, bound to magic. Will, weaved into the spell. Strong and sturdy. Dangerous.  _

That made sense, maybe. Those were all the things he fueled his bound flames with, and they were stronger for it. It had never occurred to him that another could do it, too. 

“You  _ dare  _ think to banish me?” 

A massive clawed hand fastens around Shiro’s left wrist and squeezes. Shiro shrieks as something  _ cracks  _ inside his arm, and Zarkon’s claws shred into his flesh, vicious and unrelenting. 

Without breaking stride, Zarkon lifts him by his arm and slams him back down into the ground like a flail. Shiro can’t suppress another scream as something else snaps farther up, in his shoulder, and his whole left arm goes limp. Zarkon’s claws drag as he removes them from Shiro’s flesh and bone, and shredded cloth and blood drip from his fingers. He sneers. “Pathetic.”

Shiro gags. His arm won’t take his weight anymore, and there’s a sharp pain in his side that suggests his ribs are in bad shape. His head whirls, and blood runs from his arm in streams. 

_ Fight,  _ a voice whispers. It takes him a second to understand the magic.  _ Do not perish. Fight.  _

_ Fight,  _ he agrees. He gathers his strength, and in a rush, lunges for the second cable of blood magic two feet away.

Zarkon snarls at him, and distantly Shiro feels claws rake at his back, gouging through his jacket to his skin. But his fingers are already around the ritual magic, and he digs them in furiously, ordering,  _ Burn it!  _

_ BURN THE CORRUPTION!  _ The magic agrees, and once more violet flames run up and down the length of the cable. Once more, the fires burn down to the memory and will bound into the center of the ritual key, and the force of it rushes against Shiro’s mind like a raging tide—

_ “I cannot grant you your request.”  _

_ The creature is ancient, so ancient she cannot even feel past the first layer of their mind. They don't  _ have  _ a mind, not in the same way as mortal things. They are a force, deigning to take mortal appearance for her comfort and convenience, but never truly mortal.  _

_ The form they— _ he _ —takes now is different than the one he first came to her in. He knew immediately that she wasn’t of this world. He’d assumed a form like that of her people—humanoid, pale, dark hair, blue-white eyes filled with thousands of miles of primitive dirt roads. She had to fight the impulse to scratch those vile eyes from his face for looking like her tormentors, her prison wardens.  _

_ He had sensed her discomfort somehow, even if he never read the first layer of her mind. He changed into this otherworldly thing, with long white hair, purple skin, and strange dark armor.  _

_ She had heard stories of this thing. Snatched them from the minds of the pathetic creatures that lived on this planet—humans, mostly, and some other things. A creature that haunted the roads, and granted fantastic gifts, for costly prices. It was said to be capable of anything, as long as you could pay. _

_ There was nothing on this world or outside of it that she  _ wouldn’t  _ pay to go home. Home to her family. Home to her vengeance. Home with her knowledge and her memories, where everything was  _ right,  _ not this terrible, primitive world.  _

_ And now this thing  _ refuses  _ her. _

_ “I will pay  _ anything,”  _ she says. “Name your price. Whatever it takes, you will have it.” _

_ She stares at the creature. He is impossible to read, with no mortal mind to speak of. He exists, but as something much bigger than anything even her great mind could ever fathom.  _

_ His servant is no different. The ghost had come to her call, at the crossing of two ancient dirt paths, and guided her to the creature. The ghost had been human, she thinks, when it was alive, and humans were read so easily. But the dead do not work the same way as the living, she has come to learn, and his servant is as unfathomable as he. _

_ “An intriguing offer, certainly,” the creature says. “I’ve no objection to bargaining with you, for so tempting a price. Unfortunately, what you ask for, I cannot give.” _

_ “What will it  _ take?”  _ she asks, desperate. “I must go home. It is the only thing in this world I want—to be out of it. What do you need? More power? Sacrifices? Lifeforce? Ability? Take what I have. I will find more for you, if I must. Send me  _ home.” 

_ “The master has spoken,” the ghost chides, eyes glowing golden. “A deal cannot be brokered—” _

_ The creature raises his hand. “Peace, Ven’tar,” he says, and turns back to her. “Understand, I do not refuse your request lightly. I cannot grant it because it is not my place to. That is not my domain, and I have no power there. I am of  _ this  _ world.”  _

_ He folds his hands behind his back and watches her. Something changes in his face. Some sort of emotion. She has never been able to understand this world and the expressions so many of these humanoids bear on their faces. They don’t speak with minds, and resort to primitive physical ways to express what is in their heads. Even this creature, a very force of nature, imitates them.  _

_ But when he speaks, she does recognize something in his voice. This creature pities her.  _

_ She loathes him for it.  _

_ “I cannot grant you what you ask for,” he repeats. “But I can offer you other things, to ease your burden here. I can transport you to another part of the world for a fresh start. Guarantee that you will never hunger or suffer. Ensure protection from the dangers of the world. Or perhaps, if you wish, I can remove the memories that plague you, so you might live in peace.” _

_ She needs none of these things. This pitiful world offers her no dangers. Food, shelter, and safety are easy enough to come by—humans are pathetically easy to manipulate, and wish to help and protect her even from her passive mental influence. All she has left are the few memories not stripped from her, and her desire for vengeance, and she will not give those up. They are the only things that still fuel her in this rotten world.  _

_ “No,” she says. “This is not an acceptable alternative.” _

_ “Then I am afraid there is no bargain to be had,” the creature says, regretfully. “I am truly sorry I can be of no help to you. Still, if you have another request, you have only to call. Ven’tar will take you back to the true world.” _

_ The ghost bows to her master, and takes her aside. She follows mechanically, ignoring the ghost’s apology and pity.  _

_ The creature couldn’t help her. It had been her last hope to return home, when she could find no other way, and the equations she could manipulate weren’t strong enough to take her back.  _

_ But the visit had not been useless. The creature couldn’t help her, but that was only because her request was outside his domain. _

_ That meant there were others like him out there, in other realities. Others who have the power this one lacks. _

_ And she is going to find them. _

—but this time Shiro is ready for it, and he fights it back with his own desire to see the world  _ exist,  _ and the blood magic crumbles to dust beneath his fingers and flames.

He gasps, trying to ignore the pain in his chest as he does. That had been  _ Lotor.  _ Honerva had tried to bargain with Lotor to go home, and he’d refused her. 

What had happened, generations before Shiro was ever a thought in the eye of existence? He fights the urge to look over his shoulder, towards the same creature—even the same form—he’d seen in the bound memory. Whatever he’d stumbled over, it ran deep, and he’s starting to understand why Lotor had put so high a price on the information. 

“Pitiful  _ mortal,”  _ Zarkon snarls. Shiro stumbles into a weak crouch and whips his head around, arm hanging, every part of him hurting, only to find the avatar of absence standing over him. “My progeny sullies the power I gave him by allowing wretches like you to be so insolent. I will teach you as he should have.” 

“That isn’t your right—” Lotor snaps angrily, from his prison of will and protection of flames. But he’s too late. Zarkon’s fist clenches tightly, as he glares down with disgust at Shiro, like a human eyeing a particularly unwelcome bug in their home.

And Shiro’s very existence erupts into pure, unrestrained  _ agony.  _

Lotor did this before, when he was possessed—punished him, even without a bargain to justify it. Shiro had thought that was true pain, then. 

But Lotor is a novice compared to his father. Every single bone in Shiro’s body, every single nerve, every organ and blood vessel and  _ cell  _ down to the molecular level, comes alight with sheer agony. Every part of him capable of hurting, hurts as much as it ever could in a lifetime. His broken bones transcend the pain they had already been causing him, and every bruise and gash becomes unbearable. 

And still it goes  _ further.  _ It’s not just his body in agony. Zarkon tears at his mind, dragging fears and nightmares to the surface. Zarkon tears at his soul, pulling apart the things that hold who he is, together. Zarkon tears at his very  _ existence,  _ and he can feel himself coming apart in every way that matters.

It’s too much. It’s too much for his mortal mind to understand. His brain can’t interpret so much suffering all at once. He’s blinded, vision black. There’s yelling, but he doesn’t understand it. His body spasms uncontrollably, breaking itself further while being broken. 

None of it matters. He’s  _ suffering.  _

And then,  _ warmth.  _ Warmth floods through him, through his agonized limbs and struggling insides. It curls around his breaking mind and soul and binds it together again. Flames surge through him, burning away the suffering—not all of it, but enough to take the edge off his senses and let him  _ understand  _ again. 

_ Together,  _ his magic whispers.  _ Mine.  _

_ Help me,  _ Shiro begs, forming his first clear thought.  _ Help me.  _

And the magic responds, fighting harder against the force of punishment. It still can’t burn away all of the suffering, not when Zarkon is the wielder. But it floods his tired muscles with strength and energy, slipping through his limbs with intent. 

It’s a strange feeling, but not the same as when Haggar had possessed him. Then, he had moved against his will, with a force inside him puppeting him like a marionette. This enhances his ability to move, but does not interfere with his free will. 

The magic helps him resist Zarkon’s punishing agony just enough to strike. Shiro gathers his strength and his will, disguising his movements as agonized thrashing, and lunges at the next of the three remaining blood ritual keys. He steels his mind for the memory he knows is coming, and sinks his fingers into the viscous, bloody magic, setting his flames free—

_ The remote village provides a suitable location for her work. Even if a visitor reports the deaths and the spellcasting to that irritating Covenant of St. George, their paladins will arrive days too late to interrupt her. _

_ The village had also contained exactly enough humans to properly fuel the blood ritual. Killing them had been easy, of course. They were so ignorant of how easily they were manipulated. They thought her a long lost sister, daughter, mother, and they had been willing to do anything for her. Including allowing her to slit their throats without complaint. _

_ The blood magic is more difficult. It isn’t as efficient as her own peoples’ equations, and can only manipulate certain aspects of the world. It is frustratingly difficult to research, for humans attribute it to demons and devils, and execute anyone willing to learn about it. They, like her own people, are terrified of the unknown, and of pushing farther into danger for knowledge. _

_ It makes it that much easier to kill them. She need only imagine their minds like the shadowy impressions still left to her of her captors, as she drains their lives and scribes spells in their blood. _

_ The blood magic is more difficult, but it’s the only option left to her. She is only in her first instar—the equations she is capable of using to manipulate the world are limited, and her power is nonexistent. Magic exists in this world, in other forms, but like her own people it is usually restricted to genetics. But blood magic—that can be used by anyone, of any race, regardless of inherent magical skill. One need only learn to scribe the right spells, and have the right number of sacrifices, to make almost anything happen. _

_ Including seeing into other worlds.  _

_ It took some experimentation, to figure out how to adjust the sigils and spells to scry, and not summon. Humans, they were obsessed with  _ summoning  _ things. Creatures from other realities, usually ones that would consume them, because they were too stupid to know how to restrict them afterwards.  _

_ But that took energy—more energy than was needed, more bodies than were convenient. There was no way to inverse the spell, to send herself somewhere else. But seeing outside this world—that was possible. It had taken time to find out how, to adjust each symbol and shape of energy, to find new sources of lives to fuel her experimentations. But she had finally found a way. _

_ Now, she sits in the center of the ring of blood and symbols scribed in the village’s meeting hall, ignoring the corpses littering the space around her. She closes her eyes, and concentrates upon the energy of death around her, and shapes it to her will. _

_ And she looks beyond the world. _

_ She is aware that her time is limited. This many deaths will only fuel her search for so long. So she searches through hundreds of images, flitting from world to world, scouring realities for the power she truly needs. _

_ And eventually, among images of a dead, drained world, she finds something staring back at her. Something made of darkness, with gleaming violet eyes, and a mind too big for her to comprehend.  _

“It has been a long time, since a living mind has come here,”  _ something rumbles inside her head, louder than even the loudest projection her race could make.  _ “How did you come past the barrier, wretched mortal?” 

_ It can see her. It knows she’s there, even in a scrying, even with her body still sitting amidst corpses and blood in her prison world. Its presence is overwhelming, one of pure absence and decay, immensely powerful and unrestrained. She barely resists it crushing her mind into dust.  _

_ This thing is dangerous. And yet its power is promising. It might yet prove to be her savior. _

_ “I come searching for a being of another world,” she answers. “I felt a barrier, but I was of no consequence to it, and slipped past its borders.”  _

“Interesting,”  _ the voice says. The shadows coalesce around her, thick and viscous. The presence—one of absence and void—slips closer to her scrying. She is aware, suddenly, that it clutches her in its mind, and if it doesn’t wish for her to leave, she never will. And behind its overwhelming power and crushing presence, she can feel an all-consuming hunger, in a world with no nourishment to sate it.  _

_ She isn’t afraid. This thing can end her existence if it wants to. She doesn’t care. She cares for nothing, other than to go  _ home,  _ to have her family and her vengeance returned to her.  _

_ “I seek a being that can grant favors, in return for payment,” she says boldly, as the presence comes closer. “The one of the world I am trapped in was unable to grant the favor I ask for. Are you such a being?” _

_ She projects her experiences of the road creature she had tried to bargain with to the presence. She does not expect the snarl of anger that rips through her mind, cutting her thoughts to ribbons, or the way the presence clutches around her, so strongly that her body in the world gasps for breath.  _

“Betrayer,”  _ the voice roars, and it echoes across the whole of the broken universe around them.  _ “My progeny yet lives? That weak, traitorous world spirit that  _ dared  _ to lock away a god?” 

_ The presence howls with anger. The pressure becomes too intense. She can feel her mind being torn apart, feel the end of existence ripping her out of the very fabric of the world, of potential. In the physical world, she gasps, doubling forward, struggling to breathe, struggling to function.  _

_ In the world of the spell, that lets her look and travel beyond, she gasps, “Vengeance for vengeance!” _

_ The terrible void presence pauses. Slowly, the crushing force tearing apart her very existence relents, pulling back.  _ “Speak.” 

_ “I offer a bargain,” she rasps, her voice haggard and struggling, but her thoughts firm. “You hate this world spirit that rejected me. I will help you take your revenge against them, and the world they govern. In return, I ask only that you send me home, to the world I come from.” _

“I have no need of pitiful mortals,”  _ the voice answers coldly.  _

_ “And yet as a pitiful mortal, I can go places a god cannot,” she answers. “Gods are mighty. Their very presence draws attention. I am small and insignificant, able to slip through your barrier. But among mortals, I am strong.” _

_ The presence is silent for a long time, but she can feel it around her, always close, always a hair’s breadth from reducing her to nonexistence.  _ “I will have the world soul,”  _ it says finally.  _ “You will find a way to break the barrier my traitorous progeny set, to keep me from leaving my origin world. You will guide me to the world they rule. I  _ will  _ leave this prison.” 

_ “I understand what it means, to be imprisoned in a rotten world,” she answers. “I can do this. And in return, you will find my home, and return me to it?” _

“All worlds are mine,”  _ the presence says.  _ “They are all mine to consume. My progeny’s will be the first, but when I am released I will see all others, and everything they have will be  _ mine.” _

_ “Then I ask that you make mine the last one that you consume, for my bargain,” she says. “Surely, all of reality will sate you for millennia. By the time you come to my world, my vengeance will be complete, and I will likely be long dead. I care not what happens to them after.”  _

_ She can feel actual amusement from the presence. It’s cold and violent, but approving of her words.  _ “That is easy enough.” 

_ “Then we have a bargain? I will release you, and guide you to your vengeance. You return me to my world, and leave me to mine.” _

“I will agree to these terms,”  _ the presence of decay agrees.  _ “But you are mortal. You are  _ weak.  _ To break the barrier will take centuries—perhaps millennia. I want a guarantee you will live up to your end of the bargain, mortal.”

_ “I will not live that long naturally,” she admits, despairing. “My kind only lives a century. Two at most.”  _

“I know,”  _ the presence says.  _ “I can see the life draining from you now. Mortals are wretched, useless things.” 

_ She can feel its disgust at her weakness, but she ignores it.  _

“I will grant you a portion of my power. You will take it beyond the barrier. This alone will not free me—but it will make you stronger, and allow you to communicate with me. You will use it to find a way to free me.” 

_ “Of course,” she says.  _

“Know this, mortal,”  _ the presence says.  _ “If you fail me, if you betray me, I will be  _ with  _ you. And I will punish you for your transgressions. I do not suffer mortals willingly. Your kind exists to die and to make me stronger still.”  _ A pause.  _ “But if you serve me well, you will be rewarded.” 

_ “The reward is all I ask for,” she answers. “I will serve you faithfully.”  _

“Very well,”  _ the presence says.  _

_ It shifts around her, and out of the darkness steps a form, a mortal avatar for a mortal to interact with. It—he—looms over her spellform, with sharp armor, wicked claws, and gleaming violet eyes. “Vengeance for vengeance, then,” he says, in a voice that is now mortal, but no less deep and grating. “I will grant you power. You will free me, and take me to your prison. You will deliver my progeny to me to feed upon. And I will search the realities for yours, return you there, and consume your world last of all.” His sharp teeth are oddly bright in the dark shadows that surround them, as he holds out his right hand to her. “Do we have a bargain?” _

_ “We do,” she answers, and takes his hand. A sensation of crackling sparks rushes up her arm, sealing the bargain. Moments later, shadows dribble from the presence’s claws, and drops of oily power drip over her pale skin and sink into its surface, into her veins. She can feel it inside of her, a dark presence of absence and decay. And she can feel it consuming decay and weakness itself, making her stronger, chasing away the years.  _

_ It is terrible. And it is incredible. She could never before comprehend this much raw strength, not even when imagining evolving to her fourth instar. And this is but a tiny fragment of this creature’s power.  _

_ “Go,” the creature says. “Begin your end of the bargain. And remember, I am  _ watching  _ you, always.” _

_ “Of course, my lord,” she answers. “What shall I call you, as I serve?” _

_ The creature’s sickly violet eyes gleam. “Blood Emperor Zarkon.” _

—and he gasps, but his will and his flames are stronger in the end, and the third key crumbles into useless magic beneath his fingertips.

Shiro pants, harsh and heavy, struggling to breathe through his broken ribs as he collapses on his side. That had been the hardest memory yet to see, and the hardest to match his will against yet. Honerva was Haggar. She was Haggar, and she’d sold his  _ entire  _ world to his monstrosity for vengeance. She’d known what this thing was—what he would do to her  _ home— _ and she’d made the bargain anyway. 

He can’t imagine anyone who would be so depraved enough to do such a thing. Not even the Covenant would sell the world so easily. She has no regard for life—which makes her a fitting match for an avatar of destruction.

“Wretched  _ mortal.”  _

Zarkon’s hand snakes down towards him, lightning fast, and his wicked claws lock around Shiro’s neck. He drags Shiro upright and holds him up in the air by his throat, with his toes dangling three feet from the not-quite-ground. 

Shiro gags, but the pressure on his neck is relentless, and he can barely breathe. He struggles to lift his hands to relieve the pressure on his throat, but his left arm is still unresponsive, hanging limply at his side. His right hand curls around Zarkon’s wrist, struggling to support him, violet tongues of flame licking feebly over his fingers. 

“Did you really think such a feeble creature could defeat a  _ god?”  _ the avatar of absence asks. His purple eyes glare into Shiro’s, reading him inside and out. “You are a powerless, worthless thing. You could never hope to banish me.” 

“Enough, father,” Lotor calls from twenty feet away, still surrounded by a ring of defensive flames. “There is no need to torment him. Do not punish him for  _ my  _ actions. He has suffered enough.”

Zarkon sneers, and his fingers tighten around Shiro’s throat. He chokes, clawing feebly at Zarkon’s wrist, powerless to stop him. “No. This thing is  _ your  _ servant. He allied himself with you. He will be the  _ first  _ thing I consume, as punishment for making such a foolish choice.”

And the void presence  _ takes.  _

Shiro screams. This isn’t the torment of before. It’s worse. Zarkon is a black hole made manifest, something that consumes and never gives, and now he sets his sights on Shiro. He doesn’t just crush the life out of Shiro slowly, fingers tightening fraction by fraction; he steals that life essence, absorbing it drop by drop. Strength, energy, awareness, luck, existence—bit by bit, any force Shiro has, anything he  _ is,  _ is drained inexorably away. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ a distant thought floats through his mind, before it too is snatched away. His eyes roll.  _ I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep my promise. I tried.  _

And very far away, as the breath is crushed from his lungs and his hand slips weakly from Zarkon’s wrist, something stirs.  _ Unnatural. Vile. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  _ **_USURPER._ **

An inferno blazes inside him, and something screams in his head,  _ MINE. MINE!  _ **_MINE!_ **

His whole body, still hanging from Zarkon’s claws, bursts into blazing white-violet flames. The heat of them is incredible, more powerful than anything he’s felt from the magic so far. And yet somehow he’s untouched by that inferno, comfortably warm and safe. They draw from the quintessence around them and grow more powerful still, burning with the intensity of a star, brilliant and white hot. 

And with a crackling howl, they leap upon Zarkon, racing up his arm and rapidly overtaking his whole body. 

_ MINE!  _ The flames shriek, wailing and primal and furious.  _ MINE! NEVER FOR CORRUPTION! MINE! MINE!  _

Zarkon yells. The magic had been an irritant to him before, but it seems to cause him real pain now. The intensity of the flames melts his armor and burns his strange carapace head, seeking wildly to consume the consumer. And the void presence snarls in surprise, and unlatches his claws from around Shiro’s neck to beat the flames away.

Shiro gasps as his crushed throat is finally released, and he takes in a ragged, agonizing breath. Pain jolts through his own body as he collapses to the ground at Zarkon’s feet, and he curls on his side, coughing and gasping, muscles shaking.

Somehow, he’s gotten another chance. He can’t waste it. He isn’t done yet. 

_ Two more,  _ he reminds himself.  _ Just two more. Just two more, and I can rest… _

Movement is agony. Zarkon hadn’t stolen much from him—Shiro’s magic hadn’t given him the chance. But he’s in terrible shape, even without the avatar of absence stealing his life and existence from him. 

He keeps going anyway. He crawls, left arm dragging, muscles trembling at holding his weight, struggling to breathe. He crawls the five foot distance to the second to last key of ritual magic, fighting for every inch.

_ Help me,  _ he calls to his magic. It comes at once, leaping from Zarkon’s body to his own, warming him inside, bolstering his strength and resolve. 

_ Together,  _ the magic says. He reaches out, grits his teeth against the next memory, and wraps his fingers around the next woven tendril of ritual magic, flames dancing up and down its length—

_ “I wish to resume my bargain,” she says, standing before the creature.  _

_ It had been easy to come back. After all, the traitor world spirit had invited her to, should she require a different bargain. She had only to return to a crossroads and call the ghost servant’s name. Ven’tar came to her immediately and guided her wordlessly to her master. _

_ “I still cannot send you back to your world,” the creature says. He’s taken the same form as before—purple skin, white hair, strange armor. Perhaps he did it for familiarity. The mortals of this world placed so much value on appearance. Minds were what truly mattered.  _

_ “I do not wish for that,” she lies. “I have reconsidered. The years here since I last came to you have been hard. I wish to accept one of your other offers.” _

_ The creature tilts his head. “And which offer did you wish for instead?” _

_ “Peace,” she whispers. “Take the last of my memories. All they cause are suffering. If I cannot go home, I do not wish to remember what has been taken from me any longer.” _

_ The creature twists his face into an expression she can only assume is meant to be sympathetic. “I understand,” he says, and there is gentleness in his tone.  _

_ His predecessor had been right. He really was  _ weak.  _ The progeny of so great a god should not feel pity or care for mortals.  _

_ But soon, that will change.  _

_ “I can grant you this gift,” the creature says. “In return, I ask for your magic as the price.”  _

_ “You would take the equations from me?” she asks, alarmed despite the farce. _

_ “It will only hurt you,” the creature says. “To know nothing of where you came from, and to have magic you do not know how to harness. To grant you peace here, there must be nothing to remind you of your past life.” _

_ It doesn’t matter. The bargain is only a farce. Even so, it hurts to agree. “Very well. Peace, for the equations of my people.” _

_ “Excellent,” the creature says. “Ven’tar?” _

_ “The deal has been set at the removal of all memories from the petitioner’s prior life that cause pain, for the price of the petitioner’s magic,” the ghost beside him recites immediately. “Are both parties in agreement?” _

_ “I am,” the creature says, extending his hand to shake. _

_ “I agree,” she says, and reaches out to grasp his hand. _

_ But before the spark of the bargain can seal it, her master’s gifted power strikes at her command. Oily drops of shadow bubble up from beneath her skin and slither across to the creature’s, sinking below the surface almost too quickly to see. _

_ The creature curses, ripping his hand away from hers. She still cannot understand his expression, but his teeth are bared, and suddenly much sharper than they had been. “You break your contract already?” he snarls, shocked and angry. _

_ “No contract was made,” she answers. “And I have begun to fulfill my bargain with another.” _

_ His eyes widen, and the thousands of miles of roadways flashing past inside them rush faster. He stares down at his hand, where black veins already begin to crawl up his arm, as her master’s power rushes through him like a virus. “No,” he whispers softly. “You didn’t.” _

_ “Master?” Ven’tar whispers anxiously. “Master, what is wrong?” _

_ “Witch,” the creature snarls, ignoring his servant, and glaring at her hatefully. “I offered you peace, and this is your answer?” _

_ “You would have stolen my vengeance and my magic from me,” she answers accusingly. “But you are weak. Your predecessor is strong. He  _ will  _ grant me what I ask for.” _

_ The creature laughs. It’s a bitter, hysterical sound, as the power of absence and decay crawls its way deeper inside him. “Your master cares nothing for you. Do you think he will live up to his end of the bargain? He fed on his petitioners before your world  _ existed.  _ Putting your faith in him is folly!”  _

_ “No,” she answers. She can feel the creature beginning to lose control to the power her master has given her. It is only a matter of moments now. “I know he will consume everything in the end, including my world. Perhaps even me. But he approves of my vengeance, and he will let me have that first. That is all I care about.” _

_ The creature shrieks in rage. His left arm reaches for her, fist clenching, and she can feel the power of this world—Oriande—thrumming in response to his summons. But they never completed their bargain, and he has no power over her. Bound by his own rules as a force of nature, he has no way to fight back or defend himself. He’d never needed to, against mortals. _

_ Weak. Pathetic. Her master had broken the rules that bound him eons ago. Gods could not be bound by laws, nor should they let themselves be. _

_ Her master’s power wrests the last vestiges of control from the creature, and he screams again, this time in agony. Around them, the rolling fields of wheat begin to wilt, dissolving into dust and leaving barren, dry earth behind.  _

_ His ghost servant watches in shock, before scrambling forward, placing her hands on his arm. “Master, please—how may I help—” _

_ Her master’s gifted void power extends to her from the creature, like so many strings of oily shadow. She has seen human children play at games with toys like these, and knows what to do. She  _ twists  _ with her mind, and her master’s power suppresses the creature’s will, and her own ability compels him to act.  _

_ The creature turns, fastening his right arm around the ghost’s neck. “Your services are no longer required,” he snarls at her, his eyes gleaming violet. “You will serve me in a new way.” _

_ “M-master?” she gasps, clawing feebly at his wrist with her hands. _

_ “No one can know what has happened this day,” he whispers. “But you will still serve. Energy. All you are is energy. The first drops, for the glorious task of bringing my father to this world.”  _

_ He squeezes, and the ghost struggles frantically. She calls his name, pleads for him to stop and to tell her what is wrong. She doesn’t understand her master is there no longer, or that it is the petitioner who is in control. And soon enough her form dissolves into mist, still weeping, and the energy is absorbed into the anima mundi.  _

_ “You serve my master now,” she informs him. _

_ “Of course,” he answers. His avatar continues to act naturally, and not with the blank, drone-like responses of a fully dominated human mind. It is as if her master’s power re-wrote his priorities and suppressed his will, while leaving his ability to function behind. But it is impossible for him to cross her, or to resist her. She is completely confident of that. _

_ “I will supervise all bargains, through you,” she says. “I am connected to you now. I determine what you take, and what you give. Everything you take, comes to me. I will determine how to use it to free your father.” _

_ “Of course,” he answers again, agreeable. “I exist because of him, and to serve him.” _

_ “Good,” she says. “And when the time comes, when I have weakened the barrier enough, you will go to him willingly to be consumed.” _

_ “Yes,” he says. “That is fitting. I am the traitor. It is only right that I am the first sacrifice.” _

_ “Then let us begin our work,” she says. And the anima mundi of this wretched world bows to her, and follows every order she gives, without question. _

—and it trembles under his fingers, nearly repelling him. But his will wins out through sheer desperation, and it too burns to ash beneath his fingertips.

Shiro barely suppresses the urge to vomit. It’s all coming together now, and yet that knowledge is terrible. To think so much misfortune could have been sown, so much damage done to the world, so much was stolen  _ from  _ their world, all for one person’s vengeance...it makes him sick. 

One person had set this all into motion, but one person can still stop it. Just one more piece of the spell. One more key to destroy, and the god known as Zarkon can’t keep himself out of his own jail cell anymore. The last woven key for the spell is just six feet away. Just—

Zarkon’s armored foot slams down into his back. Shiro screams as he feels his spine  _ crack,  _ and his ribs snap under the pressure of the blow. He scrabbles frantically with his right arm, the only limb left that responds anymore, struggling to free himself. His fingers dig into the not-quite-ground, struggling to find purchase, but he’s too weak to free himself from the weight of that terrible creature.

“Pathetic,” Zarkon says. “I did not expect a mortal to come so close to banishing me. Perhaps my progeny’s chosen champion was  _ almost  _ a match for my own. But you are  _ weak,  _ in the end. I can see the life draining from you. You are  _ finished.”  _

“No,” Shiro tries to choke out, and can’t. There’s blood in his throat, and he can barely breathe. His torso is a crushed mess, his spine broken. He can’t feel his legs anymore, and his left arm is an unresponsive, snapped mess. He claws weakly at the ground again, but he can’t drag himself forward. 

So close. So close, and yet so far. 

Zarkon sneers down at him. He removes his foot, and then whirls, rapidly crossing the distance to Lotor. Distant, hazy thoughts float through Shiro’s mind as he watches, powerless to rise.  _ He’s going to consume Lotor now. Before it’s too late. Before the ritual collapses under its own weight and pitches him out.  _

He tries to drag himself forward again. He fails. The last pillar of the blood ritual is only six feet away, and it may as well be miles. 

_ Please. Please, I’ll do anything. I don’t care about my own life. I just have to stop him.  _

Across the vast distance of the Black Plane, Zarkon batters against the defensive wall of flames. They hold steady against one strike, two, three, but at last they collapse, snuffing out beneath his crushing power. Zarkon steps forward, and fastens his claws around Lotor’s throat.

“Please, do not do this, father,” Lotor says. His voice is barely a whisper, and yet Shiro can hear him perfectly, somehow. It’s resigned, tired, and trembles just slightly in fear—whether for himself or his world, Shiro doesn’t know. He makes no attempt to fight his father’s grip, most likely because he can’t. “Do not make the people of this world suffer for  _ my  _ actions against you.”

“It is already done,” Zarkon intones, voice cold. “They belong to  _ me  _ now.”

_ No,  _ Shiro pleads.  _ No, I have to stop this. Please. Help me. Are you still there?  _

_ Here,  _ his magic whispers. It’s guttering now, feebler, its light going out alongside his own. 

_ Can you reach?  _ He stares at the last tendril of blood magic, so close and yet so far away.  _ Can you burn it?  _

_ Give me will,  _ it answers.  _ Together. Burn it together.  _

Shiro does. He gives it everything his dying mind has left, outstretching his right arm as far as he can towards the cable.  _ Protect my friends. Protect the world. Protect Lotor. Save them.  _

The tiny tongues of flame licking around his fingers swell. Violet fire sputters and struggles to grow, using the last of his thoughts as fuel. They flare high, spitting embers. And then with the last of their joint strength, the flames spread, crawling like a grease fire across the not-ground of the Black Plane to the last of the malevolent red cables. 

_ Burn the corruption,  _ the magic whispers, weak yet determined, and it scourges away the vile magic, digging at the last memory within—

_ The killings come easy.  _

_ They always have. Humans are so very weak, so easily manipulated. But over the centuries, she refines her technique for it, adjusts it to suit her needs. _

_ Her needs are always changing. Freeing her master is a trickier prospect than she had first realized, even with his power to bolster her. She is stronger, for his influence. She does not feel the passing of years, and lives far beyond her lifespan. His power is what allows her to finally rediscover her original research all on her own, and evolve herself to her second instar, far beyond what should have been genetically capable of herself. She learns to manipulate the world with stronger equations, strengthening her own natural magic, thanks to her master’s influence. _

_ But it doesn’t give her the answers to meet her side of the bargain easily.  _

_ The crossroads creature doesn’t have the solutions, like she had hoped. He had locked the door and thrown away the key, and had by design never taught himself to forge a new one. No matter how completely she owns him, no matter how many hours she demands his marionette avatar give her answers, he never does, because he can’t. _

_ A grudgingly clever move, on the creature’s part, she has to admit. It certainly slows her down.  _

_ But it doesn’t stop her. She researches magic. She experiments with evolution, pushing the creatures of this world to their limits, hoping to unlock some potential that will aid her. She collects power, through the crossroads, forcing the anima mundi to harvest the world with bargains that barely fit within his rules, investing it into her projects. Every time he does, this world cracks a little further, the better for her to guide her master in. _

_ And she reports her progress to her master. She expects anger from him, but in this he is shockingly patient. Centuries mean nothing to a god, she supposes. Not after entire worlds have been born and breathed their last in the time he has existed.  _

_ Centuries mean everything to a mortal like herself. By now, she’s lived three of her lifetimes. Her family is undoubtedly dead by now—her husband turned to dust, her son likely the same. Perhaps she has descendents, through her son, but she hardly cares about those. They are mindless and nameless to her, and mean nothing. She cannot miss what she has never met. _

_ It only makes her hate her captors more. They had taken  _ everything  _ from her—her research, her life, the years she had to spend with her family. Her captors are doubtless dead by now as well, but  _ their  _ descendents certainly still live. They will bear the punishment and shame of their ancestors in their place.  _

_ Everyone left in her world is culpable for the sin of casting her out. No one will be spared the vengeance she has cultivated, for all these long centuries. _

_ And at last, after more than five centuries of studying, researching, experimenting, she finally has it. A great spell, the greatest blood ritual to exist, that will break open her master’s prison and call him to this wretched world. It will take decades to implement, and an organized network of utterly loyal mortal drones willing to work for her even without her mental influence. It will take knowledgeable experts in magic, to check her work and ensure she has missed nothing, to build upon the base of the spell, for even the tiniest mistake will cost her. It will take scores upon scores of deaths to fuel it, and all the power the crossroads have ever gathered.  _

_ But she has waited five hundred years for her vengeance. A few more prisoners, a few more mental slaves, a few more deaths, a few more years of waiting, none of it means anything.  _

_ The goal is in sight. At last, she is going to go home. _

—and Shiro’s will _barely_ holds, he’s so tired and weak. But he refuses to let his world fall, and it’s the only thought rushing through his head now. _I will not lose. I will not let my world die. I will not. I. Will. Not!_

And Haggar’s vengeance collapses, compared to Shiro’s will to protect. The last strands of the blood magic  _ snap,  _ and the final key is wrenched out of the final lock and broken into pieces.

The gash leading to the ruined, rotting world shudders. Zarkon screams, a long, unending, furious sound without breath, so loud it deafens Shiro. There’s a second, higher scream that accompanies it, a female’s voice that sounds suspiciously like Haggar’s, full of agony and loss and fury. 

Zarkon clutches at Lotor’s throat, eyes flashing with anger. Even as he roars with fury, he tries to dig his claws in tightly, to consume and tie himself to this world. 

But Lotor isn’t powerless anymore. Both of his arms reach up, his fingers digging into Zarkon’s own, and he wrenches his father’s hand from around his throat. One palm snaps out to crack against the glowing violet slits of Zarkon’s chest piece, jolting him back a good ten feet with a single tap. And then Lotor steps back, dissolving into the darkness of the Black Plane as he takes his true form.

_ “Goodbye, Father,”  _ the cosmic voice of the crossroads says, all around them.  _ “I’ll be sure to put a few more locks on your prison to prevent this from happening again.”  _

Zarkon howls in rage, and turns for the gash that leads to Shiro’s world. But his ability to hold himself in the Black Plane, when his champion's blood ritual isn’t holding open his prison door anymore, is clearly weakening. His own avatar dissolves into oily shadow, the same liquid cloud of before, a presence of void and malevolence and gleaming violet eyes. It streams through the other crack in the world, the one leading to his world of origin, as his cosmic fury shrieks all around the Black Plane. When the last drop has slithered through, the gash in the world snaps shut, and the world between worlds falls blessedly silent. 

And the avatar of absence, the void presence, is defeated.

Shiro sags, sprawling bonelessly on the ground, his eyes slipping shut.  _ It’s done. They’re safe. The world is safe. I can rest.  _

_ Do not perish,  _ his magic whispers to him.

_ I’m tired. I’ve done enough.  _

_ Do not perish,  _ the magic insists again.

“Shirogane.”

The cultured, mortal voice of the crossroads is back. Shiro wearily wrenches his eyes open, and finds himself staring at the strange armored boots Lotor’s otherworldly, elflike form wears, ten feet away.

His magic flares immediately. It’s weak, like a guttering candle, but it summons strength to burn. Violet flames spring up all around him, circling him defensively.  _ Usurper,  _ the flames shriek angrily.  _ Bond breaker. Liar!  _

Lotor sighs. “There’s no point in being angry with  _ me,  _ little flames. I’m not the one who sold you as collateral. Nor am I truly the one who accepted you as payment. Our quarrel is with the same person.”

_ Oh,  _ Shiro thinks. The thought is distant. The words must mean something, but he doesn’t understand what. 

They certainly mean something to his magic. It understands Lotor—but then, it was hardly surprising that the crossroads, a force of nature, knew the language of magic as well as the languages of men. The flames burn angrily, but then grudgingly, tiredly, relent, tongues of flame flickering out and returning to the runes in Shiro’s arm. 

“The doorway to your world is closing, Shirogane,” Lotor says, pacing closer. “If you wish to return to your people, you need to leave. Now.”

That makes sense. And he does want to go  _ home.  _ He needs to make sure everyone is okay. That Haggar didn’t slaughter them when he left them. He has so many people to look out for.

But he can’t move. Everything in him is broken. He has nothing left, and he can feel his energy slipping away. He’s dying, and he knows it.

Lotor crouches down next to him on one knee, studying him. “There will be no way for you to escape this place, when that opening closes. Death won’t save you—your ghost will have no place to go. Not even I can save you then, Shirogane. The Black Plane isn’t my world. I have no authority here, only the right to come to this place. It certainly isn’t meant for mortals.”

Shiro understands that. He knows he needs to  _ move.  _ He struggles weakly, trying to push himself up with his right arm. But he has no strength left, and he barely moves his arm at all, much less lifts himself.

Lotor sighs. “This certainly is a conundrum,” he drawls, before turning his eyes skyward towards the eternal eclipse above. He studies it carefully, and says as though passively observing, “It occurs to me that you did, in fact, save my existence and my world just now. These are the most valuable things I own. I suppose, in pursuit of balance, I must grant you something once again.”

Shiro says nothing. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, between his crushed throat and the blood in his mouth that’s making it steadily harder to breathe, much less speak.

“I will agree to return you to your world, in exchange for the already completed act of preserving myself and the world I have cultivated,” Lotor says. “Does that sound like an acceptable agreement?”

Shiro says nothing. 

“I will interpret your silence as a yes,” Lotor says calmly. “Shake my hand to seal the pact.” He extends his right arm, tapping Shiro’s right fingers lightly with his own, as if giving a gentle nudge.

Shiro says nothing. His mind is hazy, and he can barely focus anymore. But something in him warns that deals with the crossroads are dangerous, and his mind is too broken to think about the hidden clauses in the bargain. 

Wasn’t there supposed to be an arbitrator? Where was Acxa? There was supposed to be a ghost. No—didn’t Lotor kill her? No, no, that was the memory…

Lotor sighs. “Shirogane, I realize this is  _ highly  _ unorthodox. But we’re on something of a tight schedule here, with literal moments to spare. As I just said, my servants  _ cannot  _ come to the Black Plane. So you are just going to have to trust, for once in your life, that I am not taking advantage of you.”

Dangerous. That sounds very, very dangerous. 

“You saw me do what I could, to stand up to my father,” Lotor says. “You were willing to deal with me before, to save your life and your world. How is this different? Shake my  _ hand,  _ Shirogane. I can only help you if you agree to let me.” He seizes Shiro’s right wrist, placing Shiro’s hand in his own. “Hurry. You are running out of time.”

He’s so tired. He’s dying. If he’s going to be dead anyway, he’d rather be dead in his own world. Not alone for eternity in this strange world between worlds. 

Lotor hadn’t said anything about recruiting him as a ghost, or taking the flames. Maybe it would be okay. He struggles, and with the very last of his strength, manages to twitch his fingers just barely around Lotor’s own.

The electric shock of the deal sealing races up his arm, just like before. His magic stirs irritably, but it stays with him, and that’s all that matters. 

“Very good, Shirogane,” Lotor says. Somehow he’s much bigger than before, and he lifts Shiro as easily as an adult lifts a child. His movements are quick and sure, but gentle, and despite the agony Shiro is in, it doesn’t hurt him at all. 

The hand not supporting Shiro presses to his forehead, and a spark of energy passes through him, invigorating his wounded body and mind. Shiro twitches in alarm, trying to pull his forehead away. This hadn’t been mentioned in the bargain. A trap, maybe. 

But Lotor only says, “Calm down, Shirogane. I am only returning what my father stole from you, as is right. I cannot heal you myself, per the constraints of the bargain. Nor am I permitted to enter the world directly, by my own laws. But what is yours will increase your chances, and I can deliver you to those who can help you.”

_ Life,  _ the flames whisper in Shiro’s head, reluctantly agreeing.  _ Life. Luck. Existence. Stolen by Absence. Returned by World. _

_ Oh,  _ Shiro thinks, and he finally surrenders, too tired to fight anymore.

Lotor moves fast. The strange expanse of stars and dark skies and the eternal eclipse passes him by in a blur, and before Shiro knows it, the gash Haggar had torn into the Black Plane is there. It’s already slipping closed, with the blood ritual no longer wrenching it open. In seconds, it will be closed to him forever.

“A pleasure as always, doing business with you, Shirogane,” Lotor says, crouching before the tear in the world. “Our bargain is concluded, but know I will not forget what you did for  _ my  _ world this day.” 

And he lowers Shiro through the doorway, into the true world.

He falls through from endless space and darkness and silence, to bright lights and voices and the stench of blood and death. He collapses next to bodies and dried blood, and vaguely registers he’s in the blood ritual. Above him, the tear in the world seals itself up, and the breach into the Black Plane is gone, as though it never existed. 

He lets out a weary sigh of relief. He’s going to die, but at least he’ll die home, safe in the knowledge that he did what he could to protect his world.

_ “Shiro!”  _

“Get him out of there, hurry!”

“Don’t touch the bodies! The preservation spell will be crawling with bacteria.”

“Hurry!”

Movement all around him. Shiro catches flashes of familiar faces—Lance, Hunk, Pidge, Matt—swarming around him. They work together to lift him, and carry him away from the blood and bodies of the ritual, setting him down just outside the ring. 

Being moved should hurt, but it all feels so distant now. The taste of blood is fainter, the struggle to draw air into his lungs is no longer so terrifying. It takes too much effort to keep his eyes open, and so he gives up fighting their heavy weight, and lets them slip closed.

“Shiro! Oh my god, what happened to him?”

“He’s hurt. Really,  _ really  _ badly. Athena, I don’t know if he’s gonna make it—”

“Don’t  _ talk  _ like that! Let me—”

“Keith,  _ you’re  _ hurt really bad too, stay still or you’re make yourself worse—”

“We have to  _ help him—”  _

“Um, guys? I don’t think he’s breathing anymore—”

“Shit! Anyone know CPR?”

“We  _ can’t!  _ Look how crushed his chest is, and his spine is broken, there’s nothing we can—”

_ “Move.”  _

The last is Allura, and that single word is unquestionably an order. She sounds more regal than Shiro has ever heard her before. There are distant shuffling noises as people obey, and a moment later cool, light fingers brush against his forehead.

“He’s nearly gone,” she whispers. “Please be quiet. I must concentrate.”

“Miss! You  _ can’t.  _ You’ve already spent so much energy fighting that ritual. You’re exhausted. This could  _ kill  _ you.”

“This man just sacrificed  _ everything  _ to protect my city and my world, Coran. I would be remiss if I was not willing to do the same. Now hush, and let me try.”

Shiro wants to tell her  _ no.  _ She can’t risk herself. She’s too important. But he can’t speak, and then she’s already working, and it doesn’t matter what he thinks anymore. 

Allura has healed him before—knitted gashes closed and mended broken bones. But this is the first time he’s ever felt the  _ magic,  _ and not just the results. It’s pure life energy that she circles through his entire body, cool and restorative and full of unbridled potential. The magic changes things, but it’s coaxing and gentle, and yet brilliant and blinding. His ribs snap into place. His spine mends itself, and he can feel everything below his waist again. His throat restructures and clears, and his crushed lungs expand, and he can  _ breathe.  _ His distant mind is called back by her magic and settled into place. 

He has the impression, behind his eyelids, of a flash of brilliantly glowing wings, and a humanoid figure that reaches out and calls him back and says,  _ not your time, not yet.  _ And he understands exactly how human stories about angels changed to winged, benevolent figures, after all this time.

Then the sensation draws away, and the cool touch of fingers at his forehead leaves. The pure essence of vitality evaporates, leaving behind aches and distinct pains. But his own magic floods into the emptiness left behind, warm and soothing, and gives him the strength to endure.

_ Together,  _ it whispers.  _ Do not perish. Together.  _

_ Thank you,  _ he whispers back to it. And then he opens his eyes.

He’s lying on the concrete floor, and his friends surround him. Lance and Hunk are by either shoulder, and Pidge is next to his left arm, with Sam crouching next to her. They’re all wearing worried expressions, but they change to weak relief when he opens his eyes and looks around at them all.

But it’s not  _ everyone.  _ “Allura?” he rasps in a panic, trying to scrabble upright. His left arm hurts and won’t take his weight, and he can’t move it outside a few pathetic finger twitches. His right arm doesn’t fare much better. But he has to get  _ up.  _ He thought he heard Coran say something about her risking her life for him—

“Woah, woah, woah!” Lance yelps. “Shiro, take it  _ easy!”  _ He and Pidge each take a shoulder and help Shiro ease upright. They’re supporting his entire weight; he just doesn’t have the strength to do it on his own. 

“Allura,” Shiro repeats, anxious. She  _ can’t  _ have died for him—

“Here.”

Shiro whips his head around, and winces at how much it hurts and leaves him dizzy. Allura is cradled gently in Coran’s arms. As he watches, she opens her eyes wearily and gives him a weak, exhausted smile, waving to him once with a hand still burned and blistered from the ritual. 

Her wings are  _ gone.  _

Well, not gone, he realizes, after a shocked moment. The appendages are still there, and Coran supports Allura’s shoulders gently, so as not to trap them. But they’re completely featherless, and resemble stripped chicken wings more than anything else, just a few narrow bones with skin stretched thinly over them that droop uselessly. Dozens of pale white feathers litter the area around her, frayed and dead.

“They will heal,” she murmurs, after he stares at her for a long moment. “Eventually. I am afraid I couldn’t even heal all of your injuries—only the most severe. We will both be recovering for a very long time.” She closes her eyes, and rests her head against Coran’s shoulder. “But we will both live.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “You sacrificed so much to save me. I won’t forget.”

“Then we are even. I have no doubt you did the same for all of us, wherever you went.” She smiles faintly, still with her eyes closed. “Six years ago, I never would have believed I would spend all of my power to save a former Covenant agent. The world is a strange place...but I am glad it still exists.”

“Your father would be proud of you, miss,” Coran says fondly. 

“Thank you.” She sighs, and finally sags, slipping into a weary rest. 

Shiro lets her be. She deserves it, after everything she did this day. He’s exhausted as well, and wants nothing so much as to follow suit, but he can’t until he knows  _ everyone  _ is okay.

“Where’s Keith?” he asks next, looking around slowly. He wishes he could  _ move.  _

“Here,” Keith calls him wearily. Shiro turns his head with difficulty, and finds Keith sitting upright, with Matt keeping one overly long arm around his shoulders for support. His hands are pressed to his stomach, his eyes are tight with pain, and his fingers and dark shirt glisten with blood. But he doesn’t seem as bad off as he had been when Shiro went into the Black Plane.

“I’m okay,” Keith reassures, when Shiro stares at him expectantly. “She stabbed me pretty good, but Coran fed me some of his blood. It’s still gonna take me days of feeding to recover, but I’m not going to bleed out tonight.” 

He winces, and for the first time Shiro notices the red stains around his mouth. He’ll have to talk to Keith about that later, when they’re both feeling better. The Marmora Society had made him practice live feeding, but Keith had never been fully comfortable with it, even when he’d gotten used to drinking blood. 

“I’m quite alright, as I’ve assured Keith  _ several  _ times,” Coran adds. “Barely even dizzy! Some juice and crackers and I’ll be right as rain.”

“And everyone else is okay?” Shiro asks, wearily giving the rest of them a once over. There isn’t a single one of his friends who doesn’t have some kind of wound, but none of them look life threatening as far as he can tell.

“We’re alive,” Hunk confirms. “All of us. Not long after you went through that creepy hole in the air, Kolivan’s backup teams got here. They were able to support us in the fight.”

Hunk gestures, snakes hissing. For the first time, Shiro notices the movement beyond his immediate circle of friends. There’s still a battle going on, but it has definitely shifted to be in favor of Shiro’s troops. Marmora vampires work in tandem with Sanctuary werelions and the handful of other cryptid volunteers left in the assault. As he watches, Kolivan organizes teams of cryptids to work together, and Griffin, bleeding but still going strong, works with him to spread the orders and manage tactics. 

Slowly but surely, they push back the rest of the cultists. There aren’t many of those left, and the ones that are seem to be in shock, or operating as individuals, not as part of a cohesive unit. Victory will come in just a matter of time, now.

Which means…

“Haggar?” He whispers. “What happened to her?”

“See for yourself,” Lance says, and he and Pidge help Shiro shift enough to see across the blood ritual.

Haggar is there, kneeling beside the ritual in her cultist robes, one hand trailing along the bloody lines of the outer circle. Her face is turned skyward, arms hanging by her sides, as though she’d collapsed brokenly to her knees. Her strange yellow eyes are open wide, staring sightlessly, and her mouth hangs open in a silent, eternal scream. A clear, viscous fluid drips from her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—johrlac blood. 

“She’s dead,” Keith says softly. “She didn’t have a heartbeat even when she was alive, but I don’t hear  _ anything  _ moving in her now.”

“The magic rebounded,” Sam says. “I’m sure of it. When the ritual was broken, it took her with it, as its master.”

Shiro hesitates. “That’s...part of it,” he says softly. 

But it’s so much more than that. She’d bound up everything—her memories, her vengeance, her reason for living—into that ritual. She was just as much a part of it as the blood and the bodies. When it was broken, when her master was spat back into his rotting world, when the parts of himself he’d given her to make her stronger were ripped from her—there was nothing left keeping her alive. 

He doesn’t pity her for it. She made her choice, and if things had worked out differently, she would have sacrificed his entire world and everything that lived in it for her vengeance. But he’d seen those memories she’d woven into the spell to make it stronger, and he can’t help but wonder how great she could have been, if she’d found another way to live with herself besides anger and hate.

There’s nothing to do about it now. Those memories aren’t his, but they’re going to be a part of him for the rest of his life. All he can do now is learn from them. 

“Then...we’ve won,” he says slowly, looking around at them again. All of them—all of his friends, everyone who had come to trust him, who had become  _ family,  _ over these past few years. They’d all followed him into battle without hesitation, and he had been so sure he would lose one of them. And they had sacrificed, and they had been injured, but they were still  _ here.  _

“Yeah,” Pidge says. “We won. Thanks to  _ you.”  _

Shiro shakes his head. “All of us,” he murmurs tiredly. “It’s because of all of us. We  _ all  _ did this, working together.”

_ Together,  _ the flames in his arm agree, murmuring gently in his mind.

“Near death makes Shiro  _ awful  _ sappy,” Lance says in a loud stage whisper. Hunk and Matt snicker.

Keith rolls his eyes at them, and turns to Shiro. “Yeah, together,” he says. “Go ahead and rest, Shiro. You’ve earned it.”

And that does sound  _ great.  _ He’s so exhausted, and despite Allura’s healing, he still hurts so badly. But it’s okay. He’s going to live, and everyone else is going to live, and the rest of them have things handled from here. 

So he lets himself sink, and closes his eyes, and finally drifts off into blissful oblivion.

He dreams about  _ home. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to believe there's only the epilogue left. I'm almost sad to see it go.


	35. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FRIENDS. I can’t thank you enough for all of your support and excitement through this wild ride of a story. 
> 
> I started working on this fic a year and a half ago. Conceptualizing it almost 2 years ago. It almost got abandoned twice, for various reasons. Ultimately, I wrote it because I wanted to, and I was having a blast doing it, and I had fun going back and rereading chapters I’d already done. I shared it because I figured maybe one or two readers might enjoy tuning into it. But since Voltron is over and it’s a niche book series fusion crossover, I didn’t expect it to get too many interested people.
> 
> But you all proved me wrong. I was continually blown away by the sheer number of you that tuned in, and shared your excitement with me. The number of you who told me in comments that you eagerly awaited the next chapter, or that updates were the highlight of your day, were incredible. Every single comment, kudos, reblog, and bookmark has been a delight. Thank you all so much for following along, and it’s been a joy to bring this to life and to share it with you all.
> 
> For those of you who still want more—I highly recommend the _InCryptid_ book series by Seanan McGuire. I only delved into a fraction of the things that can appear in these books, and left a few spoilers uncovered for people to discover on their own in the series. 
> 
> Enjoy the final chapter!

“We’re family. We stick together.”   
—Alex Price,  _ Half-Off Ragnarok _

**_Altea Penthouse, six months later_ **

The throwing knife smacks cleanly into the center of the target board, nestled alongside six others. Coran claps appreciatively, smiling. “Excellent aim, Shiro!”

Shiro grins, and flips another throwing knife from a hidden sheath with his left arm, flicking it into throwing position and letting it fly. It cracks into the target board alongside the others, neatly clustered in the middle. His aim has improved considerably since he started retraining, and he’s been hitting targets consistently.

That’s a good sign. Especially for today, of all days.

“How does your arm feel?” Allura asks, from the doorway of the gym.

“Good. Really good. Much better than before,” Shiro says, working his left wrist and arm through its paces. The wrist moves with no pain, and he’s regained most of his dexterity and strength in it in the past few months. 

The doctors hadn’t been sure if he ever would. After Zarkon broke the wrist, fractured his arm, and dislocated his shoulder, he’d spent almost three months wearing a cast. It had taken three more months of physical therapy and careful training to build up his strength again, and weeks to get anything close to his original proficiency with weapons on his left side.

The flames in his right arm writhe sullenly, like an ignored toddler.  _ To burn is better,  _ it grumbles. It didn’t always appreciate how hard Shiro worked for his weapon skills, when he had  _ fire.  _

_ Maybe sometimes,  _ Shiro says.  _ Fires don’t solve everything. Anyway, I can’t always rely on you, not if I’m going to keep my promise.  _

_ True mine,  _ the flames agree, and quiet inside him.

“I am sorry I could not heal the damage,” Allura says, with a tired sigh.

“We’ve been over this, Allura,” Shiro says, as he strides over to the board and starts retrieving his throwing knives. “You did everything you could, and without you, I’d be dead. I’ll take some time recovering over being dead any day of the week.” 

“HAIL!” Shiro’s congregation of Aeslin worshippers agree. They’re spread out over the gym equipment, watching Shiro’s practice enthusiastically, interjecting with praises every time he smacks a knife home into the board. “HAIL THE CONTINUED SURVIVAL OF THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE WHO WALK OUT OF THE DARKNESS! HAIL THE LION GODDESS, FOR HER GLORIOUS GIFT OF LIFE!”

“It’s been good for him to take some time off, anyway,” Coran adds, once the mice are done. “And stop  _ touching  _ those, miss.”

“They  _ itch,”  _ Allura mutters sullenly, but she obediently removes her hand from one of the wings folded over her shoulder, and sweeps them back behind her. 

They still resemble nothing so much as chicken wings from a grocery store, and not her usual beautiful long-feathered white wings. But after six months of strict stay-at-home rest and careful recovery, she’s finally starting to show some progress. She can hold the stubby, skin-stretched wing appendages up independently without tiring now, and last week the first of her feathers had finally started to grow in. Right now, they look more like stubby needles growing out of the flesh of her wing appendages. But in a month her full plumage should return, and once it has, she should have regained enough energy to be able to heal once more.

If nothing else, it’s been an interesting educational experience on Avinidae wing growth. 

“Be that as it may, miss, please leave them alone,” Coran says. “You don’t want to damage those pin feathers by accident.”

“I think I understand a fair bit more than you about being a caladrius,” Allura grumbles. “I know not to pull out my own feathers.”

Coran laughs. “Miss, I was there when you were hatched, and when your first feathers grew in. You pulled a fair few out by accident then, as I recall. I know what I’m talking about.” 

Allura flushes, and abandons the argument. Shiro suspects there’s an embarrassing family story or two there, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he slips his throwing daggers into their hidden sheathes under his sleeves and around his torso, retreats back to his earlier position, and starts practicing all over again. 

This time, he does it with his right arm. Six months later, and with magic more willing to work with him, the runes Haggar had carved into his skin have healed as clean scars. But they’ve never disappeared completely, and with sorcerer’s magic bound to them, Shiro suspects they never will. 

It’s...upsetting, sometimes, to look at them, and know he’ll never be free of the marks of Haggar’s torment. He’s used to wearing long sleeves to hide his weaponry, but now he wears them to hide his skin from himself too, even in the safety of the penthouse. There are days when he can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror after a shower, for fear of seeing the marks, or his white hair, and knowing that even when she’s dead he’ll never really be free of her. There are nights when he wakes from terrible dreams of her looming over him, shredding his mind and his body to pieces, and wants nothing more than to claw the runes off his skin, digging in deep with his nails until they’re gone. 

But it’s better. It’s slow, but it’s getting better. He’s been working with Sam and Colleen over it, and they’ve been trying to convince him to see a cryptid therapist to help. Allura has a dozen she can contact, the moment he asks. He might even consider listening to them one day. 

The strength in this right arm has also never recovered completely, either, no matter how carefully or intensely he trains with weights and runs through katas. His grip is weaker, he can’t lift as much as he used to, and his dexterity with certain skills has grown worse. 

He’s beginning to suspect, like the scars, it will be like that for the rest of his life. His doctor thinks lasting nerve damage is the cause, from deliberate cuts so deep. And none of them really know to what extent the binding spells affect him.

Of course, the tradeoff  _ is  _ magic. And now that Shiro’s figured out how to talk to the sorcerer’s magic bound to him, it certainly is a convenient thing to have in a fight.

“Watch this,” Shiro says, to his audience of Allura, Coran, and the mice. He snaps one of the throwing knives from its hidden sheath to his hand, and flips it into a throwing position. At the same time, he calls to his magic, and the fire leaps eagerly to his fingertips. Violet flames wreathe the dagger as it leaves his fingers, and it  _ thuds  _ into the board dead center, still alight. 

“Impressive,” Coran says, raising an eyebrow, over the enthusiastic cheers of the mice. “But I hope you don’t intend to burn the place down.”

“They won’t. Not unless I ask, or they forget they’re a part of me,” Shiro says. 

That was something he’d learned over the past six months of having the primal essence of heat trapped in his arm. The flames always started as  _ magic,  _ and they would never hurt him, or hurt what was precious to him. But they could grow into natural fire, and when they rejoined the world, they could forget where they’d come from. Fire existed to burn, and it wanted to, and even as a sorcerer, it was important to never forget that.

He  _ may  _ still have set a few things on fire accidentally, in the past few months. Even with the ability to hear the magic. Control was a work in progress.

But he’s confident in his control now, at least. He extends his hand to the violet flames dancing on the dagger’s edge, and they rush back to him gleefully, like a beloved pet. They nestle inside his arm and warm him comfortably inside, all without doing any damage.

“Your aim is certainly much better,” Allura notes. “How does the rest of you feel? Considering today is the day…”

“I feel great,” Shiro says with a smile, as he flings another dagger. “Really. It’s good to be active again.”

For a while, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do that, either. The night of the attack on the Galra Cult, Shiro had lived thanks to Allura’s intervention, but he had still been in terrible condition. Besides the arm fractures and dislocated shoulder, his ribs had still been cracked—if not outright broken, thanks to Allura—and he’d had a severe concussion, a fractured leg, deep claw gouges in his arm, chest and back, some internal bleeding, and at least a dozen other minor sprains, fractures and cuts from Zarkon’s torture. 

Without Allura’s natural healing powers to fix him, it had been up to modern medical science instead. And since human hospitals would certainly question the wounds he’d come in with, Shiro had spent most of the early months of his recovery at Sanctuary. The doctors there had their hands full, treating wounded cryptids and lycanthropes after the battle. But they didn’t question Shiro if he told them the claw marks on his back and arm came from a literal god of nonexistence. 

Shiro had been grateful to Griffin and the others, for giving him a place to recover in their safe space. Griffin had enough problems to deal with, after the battle—at least a quarter of his werelions had died, and none of them had come away uninjured, despite the relative hardiness of lycanthropes. 

Griffin had been more surprised that Shiro thanked him at all for the aid. 

“We only  _ have  _ this place to protect ourselves, and doctors to take care of us, because of  _ you,”  _ the leader of the lycanthropes had said. “Of course we’d let you recover here and use our resources. We owe you everything.” 

There was a lesson in that, Shiro figured. What goes around, comes around. He hadn’t helped the lycanthropes to hold it over them, but it was nice that he had someplace to go for help, if he needed it. 

But even so, it had been a relief to finally get out of that makeshift Sanctuary hospital, after being stuck in it for a month. Shiro had never done well with forced rest, and it was even worse when he felt that he  _ couldn’t  _ defend himself. Being trapped in a hospital bed, wounded all over and unable to walk due to a fractured leg, was about as vulnerable as it got. It made him twitchy and uncomfortable, even knowing there was an entire horde of werelions, and most of his trusted friends, between him and anything that might want to attack him. 

Even after that first month, even no longer restrained to a bed, he had been forced to take it easy for another six weeks. The doctor had given him permission to leave the makeshift Sanctuary hospital, but only if he returned to Allura’s penthouse, with constant watchful care and a sharp warning to stay off his leg. His doctor—the same wadjet that had supervised his coma—checked in regularly, and she was vicious about ensuring he followed the rules she set for his recovery.

It had been galling, to be an invalid for so long, unable to walk and with one arm constantly in a cast. Even with his stitches removed, he’d still been sore and sensitive all over, and it made hiding weaponry on his person difficult. 

_ Not  _ having weaponry was not an option, no matter how often his friends insisted he didn’t  _ need  _ a brace of knives, a garotte and a handgun while he was convalescing. He felt worse if he  _ didn’t  _ have something on hand to defend himself with. He’d resorted to hiding weaponry around the awful wheelchair they made him use, but that had tended to alarm his friends more.

Worst of all, he hadn’t been able to work _.  _ Keith had posted signs at his studio for him when Haggar first kidnapped him, and called around to all the members of his classes, explaining he’d been injured in an accident and everything was cancelled for the near future. Pidge had hacked into his records to issue refunds. Most of his students had been genuinely worried about him and the car accident he’d apparently been in, and even sent get-well cards, flowers, and little gifts of appreciation for ‘Ryou Tanaka.’ He’d even gotten them from graduated students who had heard about his injury.

Shiro hadn’t expected his alias to be so unexpectedly popular. He’s almost jealous of his other self.

But that job, at least, was easy enough to put aside during his recovery. He didn’t really need it for the income, and it had mostly been something to keep him busy and let him give back. Losing his ability to protect Garrison and its cryptid community had hit him much harder—but there was just no way for him to go out and do reconnaissance, work with the community, or hunt rulebreakers when he could barely get to the bathroom on his own.

That didn’t mean Garrison was unprotected. The rest of the team had stepped up and taken charge while he was missing, and they did it again while he was out of commission. “Keith is actually  _ not  _ a terrible leader,” Lance had informed Shiro brightly, during their first visit at his Sanctuary hospital bedside, ignoring Keith’s furious scowl behind him. “He can help us get stuff done in the field until you’re back in action.”

“Yeah, Shiro,” Hunk had agreed. “We’ve got this covered. You just worry about getting better.”

“You’re sure?” Shiro had asked. “This was always a job I took on willingly to help Allura, but the rest of you never had any obligations to help me with it. It isn’t your burden.”

“It’s not a burden,” Pidge had said. “All of us did it because we wanted to help you. And we still do.”

“Besides,” Keith had said softly, “Why would you ever teach us how to deal with this stuff, if we weren’t meant to use it?”

Which had been a fair point, so Shiro had relented. “Alright. As long as you look out for each other out there, and watch each other’s backs.”

And they had, and they’d done surprisingly well. There hadn’t been any missions quite as intense as the Galra cult incidents. But Keith had successfully led Lance, Hunk, Pidge, and Matt through a few missing persons cases, some hauntings and exorcisms, busting a lesser griffin mill, and catching an idiot importing non-sentient Australian cryptids for sport. He did well in the field, and the others trusted his snap judgements enough to listen to his calls. And although Shiro couldn’t join them actively during the missions themselves, he was still able to provide his insight and suggestions, and was only a phone call away if a situation turned sour.

The team was in good hands, and they did good work, protecting Garrison in his absence while both he and Allura were recovering. But even so, Shiro had been anxious to get back into the field, and do more than just dispense advice and tactics. It felt  _ good  _ being out there and making a difference. 

So he’d pushed himself as hard as they’d let him to recover, and get used to walking and training again. When his leg cast came off, he threw himself at physical therapy to get himself used to walking again inside the day. When his arm cast came off, his doctor had to all but tie him to a chair to keep him from immediately putting it to work with pushups and weight exercises. 

It had been a hard, six month road to get where he was today. But yesterday afternoon, his doctor had  _ finally  _ given him the all-clear to start doing fieldwork again. “Nothing  _ overly dangerous,”  _ she’d warned, “like attacking a cult summoning a god from another reality. But  _ smaller  _ tasks, I think you can handle. As long as you are cautious.” 

He promised he would be. And today, he was free to fight once again, and he was looking forward to  _ finally  _ getting out in the field, and putting himself to the test. 

Carefully, of course. The rest of the team wouldn’t let him do anything otherwise.

“As long as you’re  _ sure  _ you’re feeling alright,” Allura says, watching him fling the rest of his throwing knives with his right arm. “There is no shame in waiting a few more days. I only wish I could review your condition myself...but unfortunately, my healing powers have not returned yet.”

“Trust me, Allura. If I have to wait one more day, I’m going to lose my mind,” Shiro admits, as the last throwing knife  _ thunks  _ into the target board in a cluster alongside the others. The mice cheer just as hard as they had the first twenty times he nailed a target. If nothing else, they’re excellent for one’s self esteem.

“Ah, the fervor of youth,” Coran observes. “I remember those days well.”

“You can still fight with the best of them, Coran,” Shiro snorts. “Don’t pretend otherwise. I saw what you did in the Galra assault.”

Coran smiles. “Ah, but in my younger days, I would have been even better than that. Getting old has its downsides.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Shiro says, as he collects his knives and slips them away in their hidden sheathes again. This time they stay there. He’s done with practice for the day. “I’m gonna go check in on the others.”

“Dinner will be in an hour!” Coran calls after him, as he heads down the hallway. “Hunk’s already working on it!”

“I’ll be there!” Shiro calls back. Most of the team had been spending their time at Allura’s as a base of operations while Shiro recovered, although they had started to drift back to Shiro’s apartment once his casts came off and he could move easier under his own power. He’ll be glad to go back to his own home, although it certainly is convenient having everyone in one place like this, for strategy sessions and meals.

He finds all four of the Holts in Allura’s study, where they’re almost guaranteed to be holed up in their spare time. Pidge often joined the team on missions and fieldwork, and Matt had started helping as well after the fiasco with the Galra cult was finished and he’d recovered from his imprisonment. But there weren’t any missions currently, which meant they would be researching, as usual.

And there was a lot to research. After the Galra battle had been completed and the wounded and dead seen to, Keith had returned to the meatpacking plant with several Marmora Society agents to search the place and recover anything they could find. Haggar, while merciless, had been a fastidious notetaker, recording all kinds of valuable information. None of it had been destroyed, although most of it had been hidden in cypher. 

The Holts had spent months cracking the code, a difficult task Allura was actually paying them to do under the guise of a ‘research grant’ from one of her medical companies. They had finally broken through most of it halfway through Shiro’s convalescence. They were now spending their days translating the notes and learning whatever they could about Haggar’s operation. Although she was dead, she’d spent decades creating a network of loyal followers across the country, and it was going to take a long time to root them all out and deal with them. 

But there had been other information besides lists of servants and places of operation. They were slowly uncovering more information about other victims used in the sacrifices, which they handed over to Allura. She would see to it that the victims’ families were notified of their deaths, even if the exact circumstances could not be provided. At least those families would have closure, and could begin to heal.

And there was research on magic, and the evolution of cryptid races. An  _ astounding  _ amount of it, according to Sam, the product of five centuries of study and experimentation. Haggar’s methods had been cruel and unforgivable, but there was a veritable bounty of data that could be used to advance studies or treat cryptids in much more humane ways. 

Sam had assured Shiro that he would oversee the use of that data personally, and ensure no ethical lines were crossed. Shiro trusts the bogeyman to handle it properly. To this day, he and Matt both still feel guilty about their part in nearly summoning Zarkon into this world, even if it had been against their will. Both of them are dedicated to doing everything they can to make sure such information is never misused again.

But there is one other thing Shiro is hoping they’ll find, in those records. So he pokes his head into the study, notes all four of them sitting around the table with sheaves of paper and several laptops and a host of Aeslin assistant mice, and greets them. “Hey. Any progress?”

Matt groans. “Do you know how hard it is to decode a cypher based on a form of communication you can’t even access?”

“I told you, it’s  _ equations,  _ not brainwaves _ ,”  _ Pidge says. “Johrlac communicate with minds, but their magic is  _ math.  _ Shiro told us that himself!”

“I still think we’re not taking into account other methods of communication,” Matt grumbles. “Johrlac are practically alien, as far as we’re concerned. They don’t even come from this reality, we have solid proof of that. We need to learn to think like them more to actually make sense of this reasoning. These decryptions still don’t make any sense, sometimes.”

“No one wants to think like a johrlac, they’re  _ crazy!”  _

Colleen shakes her head fondly at her children, before neatly turning a decoded page in a notebook and typing a more legible copy into her laptop. “It may not look like it, Shiro, but we  _ are  _ making some headway,” she says mildly, actually answering Shiro’s question. 

“It’s good to see you,” Sam adds with a toothy—but warm—bogeyman smile. “How are you feeling today, son? Today’s the day, right?”

“I’m great,” Shiro says. It doesn’t bother him that literally everyone is asking the same question—he’s ecstatic that he  _ can  _ answer truthfully how good he feels, over and over. “It feels good to be free again.”

“We’re glad to hear it,” Colleen says, over her childrens’ bickering.

“Thanks,” Shiro says. And then, more cautiously, “Any luck on finding…”

He trails off, but all four of them know what he’s asking about at once, and Matt and Pidge stop hotly debating decryption methods. “Nothing yet,” Sam says with a sigh. “We’ve found a few more other experimental cases in her notes on creating artificial sorcerers, but so far it’s mostly theory.”

“There were a few other attempts to infuse some of her human cultists with magic,” Pidge adds slowly. “I translated some cases this morning. But nothing conclusive. Everyone else she tried it on died.”

“Dates?” Shiro asks.

“Within the last ten years,” Matt says. “But that doesn’t tell us much. She tried lots of different experiments over the course of five hundred years. Sometimes she’d come back to them again once human medical technology and science evolved, so she had more precise tools to work with.”

Pidge nods grimly. “And we still haven’t found any record of where the magic came from,” she admits. “Sorry. We’re definitely keeping an eye out for it. There’s just so much to go through.”

“That’s alright,” Shiro says with a sigh. “I know you’re doing your best.”

As convenient as magic is to have, Shiro hasn’t forgotten his promise to the flames that were bound to him. They’d bonded, but at the end of the day, the magic isn’t  _ his.  _ It’s claimed him in its own way, but it still loves its original sorcerer fiercely, and wishes for nothing more than to go back. 

So Shiro’s been trying to find the original sorcerer, whoever it might be. But finding them is proving tricky. The magic only has impressions of a person’s soul, which doesn’t give Shiro anything to go on. And it’s only fire—it doesn’t understand the concept of a name or an address, or even a face. 

Nor does it have any concept of time, which is Shiro’s real concern. It understands it was bound in the dark, and briefly removed to be tied to souls that weren’t  _ true mine.  _ But for all it understands, it could have been taken weeks before being bound to Shiro, or centuries before he was even born. 

Shiro’s beginning to think the only being that would  _ truly  _ know the answer is Lotor, based on things he distantly remembers overhearing in the Black Plane. He’s almost certain the flames were bartered by their original sorcerer to Lotor, while Haggar had possessed him, and she’d taken the payment to experiment with. Unfortunately, only the crossroads could have an idea of  _ when  _ that happened. 

But asking Lotor isn’t an option. It would undoubtedly come with a price attached, and that’s not something Shiro wants to risk for a third time. He’d already called Acxa as soon as he was able, to run by the events of the Black Plane with her and  _ ensure  _ his deal had no unintended side effects. She had assured him the deal was exactly what they’d agreed upon, but Shiro’s not willing to give Lotor another chance. 

Nor does he have any desire to upset his magic further. It still hates Lotor, and refuses to acknowledge that its  _ true mine  _ had willingly given it away. 

So all Shiro can do is keep searching, and have the Holts report anything they find to him. If his magic is lucky, its  _ true mine  _ had only bartered in the last fifty years or so, and was still alive to accept the flames back. 

If it isn’t...then Shiro will do his best to be a good partner to it, and never give it reason to fear being sealed away in darkness ever again. He may hate the scars, but they aren’t the fault of the magic bound to him. He refuses to blame them for any of his personal suffering. 

And the magic  _ has  _ come to like him, after a fashion. It’s willing to work with him outside the one time he bargained for. It’s possessive of him, protectively so. It’s comfortably warm inside, and he never feels the cold anymore, and he’s never truly  _ alone  _ anymore. Sometimes, the fact that such a warm presence is always with him is the reason he’s able to look at himself in a mirror without flinching, or deal with the aftermath of the nightmares after Haggar resurfaces in his sleep. 

Shiro would be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss the magic, if he does ever find the original owner. 

But he’ll still return it, if the time comes. Because it’s the right thing to do, and because he’d made a promise, and he intends to keep it. No matter how much it might hurt.

_ True mine,  _ the magic purrs in agreement, inside his head. After a moment, tongues of flame lick over his fingers gently, just once, before slipping back inside the binding runes.  _ Mine, too.  _

Shiro smiles. Just a little.

The Holts don’t notice the flames, and are already buried in their work again. “Well, keep me posted if you do find anything,” Shiro says. “Or if you find any other cases like mine that survived. If they’re still out there, maybe I can help them.”

Because there was literally  _ nothing  _ out there on artificially created sorcerers. Sam had already started writing up a paper for magical academia on Shiro’s situation, with Shiro’s permission, but he claims it’s absolutely unheard of. 

Shiro can understand why. The process had been literal torture, both unethical and impractical. The mortality rate was high, which only makes sense, with how much he and the magic had hurt each other when it had first been bound into his skin. Learning an entirely new sense had been a struggle, and he’s still learning to this day. There was no reason for something like this to ever happen to  _ anyone  _ in the natural order of things. 

But if anyone else had lived through that, and hadn’t figured out how to communicate with their magic, maybe Shiro could help them. 

“Can do,” Pidge agrees.

“Which reminds me, Shiro,” Sam says, looking up from his notes. “I’d like a copy of your family lineage, if you have one. I’m still curious about what trait allowed you to resist succumbing to the magic to begin with. If it’s not Covenant conditioning, and your family has no natural sorcerers—”

“—they definitely don’t,” Shiro confirms. “It would have been cut out of the lineage a long time ago, otherwise.”

“—then there has to be something  _ else  _ in your family history or genetics that bred true enough to give you increased magical resistance,  _ and  _ allowed you to adapt to it,” Sam finishes. “It might answer a few more questions about how magic works.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “I think that’s the first time since I left the Covenant that anyone honestly asked me for information about my family,” he says. “But I do have some books back home that track it. It’s in Japanese, but I can translate it for you.” 

“Excellent!” Sam says. “This could help us answer questions about human adaptability to magic, and if it could be adapted in turn to other cryptids or other forms of magic naturally…”

He’s already in his notes again, scribbling down a few things to look into later. Shiro smiles fondly at all of them and shakes his head. “Don’t get too wrapped up in your research,” he warns. “Hunk’s already working on dinner.”

“I’ll make sure they don’t,” Colleen says, with an equally fond smile. “Don’t you worry.”

“Like any of us would miss one if Hunk’s feasts,” Matt says. “I know I’ve been living on prison food for years, but Hunk’s food is on another level. It’ll be a shame if he doesn’t make that cryptid restaurant he talks about.” 

“Yeah yeah, food later, research now,” Pidge interjects. “Pass me that green notebook there—”

Shiro chuckles to himself and leaves them to it. He’ll miss Pidge’s projects spread over the kitchen table and her constant disregard for sleep or food in favor of knowledge. The Holts had moved to Garrison in the six months of his recovery, getting a nice apartment in a bogey community with Allura’s help, and Pidge had moved out of his own apartment to return to her family. It’ll be strange, going home tonight and having a spare bedroom again, and one less roommate. 

Of course, she won’t be gone forever. She still has an open invitation to visit whenever she wants, and the rest of her friends still live in his home. She’ll be back for game nights and meals. And he has an open invitation to visit the Holts whenever he wants, too, as their adopted honorary bogeyman. Colleen insists on feeding him at least once a week. 

Things have changed, but most of it for the better. It’s a good feeling, to know he’d helped that family reunite against all odds, and somehow become a part of it in the process.

Finding the others is trickier, since their haunts in the Altea penthouse aren’t nearly so predictable. In the end, Shiro comes across Keith freshly out of his sun daze, still yawning as he makes his way towards the dining room. Night has only just fallen, but Keith’s been spending more time at the penthouse to keep track of missions and coordinate between the team and the Marmora Society while he fills in for Shiro.

“Good morning,” Shiro says, grinning at the years-old joke. Keith rolls his eyes a little, and Shiro adds, “I didn’t catch you last night, you must have come back after I went to sleep. How’re things with the Marmora Society?”

“Better,” Keith answers slowly. “Still not great.” The Marmora Society’s numbers had been devastated in their final assault against the Galra. Kolivan, Thace and Ulaz had all survived, but with severe injuries, and it had taken weeks for the wounded vampires to recover. Dozens more had fought valiantly for the cause, and given their lives for it. 

It was a deep blow for the vampire community. They didn’t have the numbers they once did, and like everything else about their biology, they were slow to form families and have children. Keith, Shiro had gradually learned, was one of the youngest members of the Marmora Society, and very few of its adult members had children younger than him. It would take them decades to recover, and the battle might have edged them even closer to being a critically endangered species.

They didn’t regret helping, though. Kolivan had understood the risks, but he’d also understood the importance of the fight. Shiro doesn’t think they would have survived the assault against the Galra cult without the Marmora Society. He’s hoping he’ll finally be able to thank the Marmora leader in person for their sacrifices, one day.

Keith hesitates. “Kolivan’s thinking about reaching out to some other cryptid communities in other cities,” he says after a moment. “To see if they can connect with vampires in other parts of the country. He’s hoping to convince some of them to come to Garrison, so they can have access to a vampire support network, and we can get more numbers again.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Shiro says. With their very specific health needs—a limited diet, and an inability to function safely in daylight—it could be difficult for isolated vampires to support themselves in a human-dominated society. Recruiting for the Marmora’s network would benefit both individuals and the group.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “He wants to go to the city I was born in, too. He says if I was born there, but nobody pulled me out of the foster system when my dad died, then there could be others there without a good support system.” 

He pauses. “He says we might be able to find out more about my parents. He wants me to go with a team of Marmora agents to help out for a few months. I told him I couldn’t go anywhere until you were ok again, you trusted me with the team and I can’t just dump them, and maybe you still need me as backup, and—”

“Keith,” Shiro interrupts gently. Keith grinds to a halt, and looks up at him slowly. “Is this something you  _ want  _ to do?”

Keith is silent for a long moment. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do. If I could learn more about my mom or dad...then I want to.”

“Then you should do it,” Shiro says. “I completely support you. And if there’s anything I can do to help you or the Society out, let me know. Even two states over, I’m only a phone call away.”

Keith blinks at him for a moment, before smiling weakly. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“You okay?”

“Nervous,” Keith admits. “I don’t know what I’ll find out, when I go. I don’t know anything about my mom, and I only remember bits and pieces about my dad. What if it’s not anything I imagined?”

“It’ll be fine,” Shiro says, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “No matter what answers you get, it’ll be a good thing to know where you come from. But don’t forget, regardless of what you learn, you still have a family  _ here  _ too that you can always come back to.” He smiles. “That’s a lesson I’ve learned personally.”

Knowing where you came from was important, after all. But more important was not letting it define who you decided you were on your own.

“I’ll bet. And I’ll definitely be back.” Keith’s weak smile grows a little stronger. “But thanks.”

“Anytime.” Shiro pulls him into a brief hug—not too long, since Keith has never really been fond of contact—and releases him. “Now, we should probably get moving. Hunk’s serving dinner soon, and I don’t want him to have to track me down.”

“For your return feast? He’d throw a fit,” Keith agrees. 

The return feast really is a return  _ feast.  _ Hunk had decided Shiro finally being approved for field work again was grounds for a celebration, and had whipped up an incredible spread for everyone. The Aeslin mice had whole-heartedly agreed and immediately added the feast to their rapidly growing calendar of holy days dedicated to the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness. Shiro is going to have to force them to write all the days down for him, at this point, just so he can keep track of when he’s expected to provide cheese and cake or make appearances.

Today is worth it, though. They’re all there, all the people who have become so important to him since he ran from the Covenant. Allura at the head of the table, and Coran sitting with them for once instead of playing servant. Keith, Lance, Hunk and Pidge, as well as Pidge’s parents and brother. Shiro can’t think of a better place to be than right at that moment, with amazing food and good company. 

“I made milkshakes for dessert!” Hunk announces, carting in a tray of goodies at the end of the feast. He hands out the color-coded dessert glasses, and Shiro accepts his black-trimmed one with interest. Hunk’s concoctions are always a treat. 

“Aw! You even figured out bloodshakes for me and Keith?” Lance asks excitedly, accepting his own. It’s a foamy red concoction that looks a little too much like bloody slush to be appetizing, but Lance slurps his with obvious delight. “Goat blood too! You always get my favorite flavors.”

Keith accepts his own with a perplexed look, but he doesn’t hesitate to take a sip. By now, he’s learned to trust that Hunk’s blood-based recipes will be quite good. “Huh. The texture actually is kind of like ice cream. But the flavor is still good.”

“Is it really?” Lance eyes his own drink curiously. “I’ve never had ice cream. They don’t usually come in blood flavor. Hunk, man, you  _ really  _ gotta do that cryptid restaurant you were talking about, the chupacabra of the world are missing out. My family would love this stuff. Heck, maybe if you do they’ll come here to check out the place that caters to blood drinkers too, and I’ll finally find them.”

“I’ll think about it,” Hunk says, as he finishes handing out everyone’s custom desserts and takes his own venom-spiked one. “If you really think it would help draw your family’s attention...I mean, food  _ does  _ bring people together.”

“I would be happy to invest in such a venture,” Allura says, sipping her own fruit-based milkshake with obvious delight. “I think it would be a great success, and excellent for the cryptid community here.”

“I guess I  _ could  _ try it after school,” Hunk muses. “If I teach somebody back home in my community the engineering stuff first…and if the restaurant is successful, the revenue could definitely pay back my community for my tuition...” 

“If it’s what you want to do, then you should do it, Hunk,” Shiro says, taking a sip of his own drink. It is, as always, absolutely incredible tasting. “People here would definitely love it. I’m sure of it.”

“Now, now,” Coran interrupts. “Before everyone completely finishes off their milkshakes, I’d like to propose a toast.” He raises his glass. “To Shiro’s recovery, and to his return in the field!”

“I second this,” Allura agrees, raising her own. “To Shiro...who has taught us to always look beyond what we see, and strive for change, and a better world.”

“To Shiro!” holler the others, enthusiastically clinking their glasses together. The Aeslin mice ringing the room take up the chant in their own way, with enthusiastic  _ hails  _ and praises to the High Priest of Those Who Walk Out of the Darkness.

Shiro laughs. “I really don’t deserve this,” he says, “but thank you all.”

“Don’t deserve it? You saved all of our butts at least once,” Lance points out, slurping at his bloodshake again.

Pidge nods. “I’ve got my whole family back thanks to you,” she agrees, nudging Matt in the shoulder. He gently shoves her back.

“I’ll be happy when you’re out doing stuff with us again, too,” Hunk admits. “Some people here are just so crazy.”

“I’m just glad I don’t have to be the leader anymore,” Keith grouses around his bloodshake straw. “Shiro’s way better at it. He can take it back.”

“I was never really the leader to begin with,” Shiro points out. “There was never a formal agreement, or anything.”

“Trust me,” Keith says. “You’ve always been the leader. Whether you knew it or not. People just...listen to you.”

“Yeah,” Lance agrees. “I’m still not really sure why I went with you to that coffee shop when we met. I mean, you were a Shirogane,  _ and  _ you guys just tried to kill me. Something about you is just...trustworthy, I guess. People want to follow you.” The others nod in agreement.

Shiro’s not entirely sure what to make of that. He’s spent his time in the cryptid community being shunned for his name. And yet...so many others had accepted him. Allura had given him a chance, and Coran had followed suit. Keith had allowed him to help when he’d been scared and alone. Lance had agreed to work with him. Hunk had been convinced to accept his help easily. Pidge had directly come to  _ him,  _ and the rest of the Holts had been quick to accept him for who he was and follow his lead. Even other notables in the community, like Kolivan and Griffin, trusted what he had to say. 

And after the debacle with the Galra cult, it sounded like his reputation could be changing for the better. The cryptids who had volunteered and survived the assault had talked about what he’d done there that night, leading them to victory and risking his life to protect them. The news had spread through the bogeyman and wadjet gossip channels in a matter of days. There were certainly still people who didn’t believe the stories, or would always distrust him. But  _ Takashi Shirogane  _ had received a surprising amount of well-wishing and thanks from the same community that had previously scorned him, and all of his friends had reported at least one case of a cryptid asking them about his health with genuine concern.

Maybe they had a point. Maybe this is something he’s good at. Maybe it’s a place he belongs, and he’s finally seeing it, after all this time.

“So, wait,” Hunk says. “If Shiro’s back in action, does that mean he can help us with that new creepy case that came up?”

Shiro lifts his head. “New creepy case?”

“We just heard about it today,” Lance says. “Weird things keep happening over on the west side of the city. Random accidents and stuff where there shouldn’t have been any. People getting hurt in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Interesting,” Shiro says, his interest immediately piqued. “Tell me more. Accidents like that could be because of poltergeist activity, but if the range is wide enough, it might be due to a jink or a magic user.”

_ Magic,  _ Shiro’s own magic purrs in his head.  _ Bad magic. Burn it. Together.  _

_ So you’ll keep helping me?  _

_ Yes,  _ the magic says.  _ Mine.  _

Shiro smiles, listening over his milkshake as the rest of his friends break down the new case, explaining the details. Things are changing, and things are evolving, but definitely for the better. He has a family of his own making, and a purpose. He can finally fight again, and that means he can  _ protect  _ again. He has a promise to work towards, and the world is safe, and he’s never going to be truly alone again, not even in his darkest moments.

It isn’t the  _ easiest  _ life, the one he’s chosen. The right things are never really easy, and there are so many struggles ahead of him still that he’ll be dealing with for as long as he lives. 

But it’s the life he’s made for himself, and Shiro wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to you all for reading, and I’m so glad and so honored that so many of you enjoyed :) 
> 
> Do you have questions that weren't answered? Things you were hoping to see? Curious about the world-building? Feel free to visit me on my tumblr, VelkynKarma, and drop an ask or a prompt in my inbox. I can't guarantee that I'll write a short story for everything, but I think I like this world a little too much to abandon it completely, so I might be willing to write a little more for it if the questions and suggestions are interesting enough. 
> 
> I hope you all had as much fun with this story as I did :)


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